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Mason
She never did like to fucking listen.
Why is it so hard? Don’t touch shit. Don’t move shit. Don’t fuck with shit.
I know where every part, piece, and sheet of damned paper is in this garage. Or at least, I fucking used to.
One thing I hate more than anything is people touching my shit. Dad’s shit. This garage has been the same since he died and it wasn’t hurting anyone the way it was.
Now, I have no idea what she’s moved. What she’s thrown out. Whether customer invoices are still there.
And now . . .they’regoing to know something’s different.
“Sorry, Mr. Stevens,” I murmur, handing over the keys and the invoice to his BMW. He takes it, looking past me.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, just hired some new help.”
He gives a disappointed smile, looking past me again. This time, I turn and follow his gaze to the small window in the back to where the little redhead of my fucking nightmares is sitting on the dock. The same one where Ian and I loaded parts into the other night, knees drawn up to her chest.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Well, son, you know,” Mr. Stevens starts, placing his hand on my shoulder. “My wife and I used to fight like cats and dogs, too. Then, I learned how to apologize. Once I figured that out, my marriage was perfect. Smooth sailing.”
I have half a mind to tell him marriage is not in the cards and especially not with a woman like Hannah. She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s also a fucking tornado. One that cleans and moves my shit and gets under my skin like no other.
“She’s not my wife,” I murmur, tension like steel rigid in my spine.
“Oh,” Mr. Stevens says, looking back at Hannah and shaking his head. “My condolences, then.”
Fucking prick.
I wait here while he climbs in his car and drives off, debating on what I should do. I knew this shit wouldn’t work out.
Then I turn to head back into the office and spot her, a sinking feeling fills my gut. It’s hot. Past four, and she’s been working hard. It’s just the two of us and we’re done for the day, despite the brake job I’ve been working on the last hour after I sent the guys home.
I know I should send her home, too.
Ishouldtell her to not come back. God knows it would make my life easier. If I could convince myself Hannah Gaines is not my problem and send her back home to her mother. Let her sister rot for all the shit she’s done.
Maybe then, I could accept that Hannah’s not mine. She never has been.
But . . . even as I think it, I know it’s not fucking true andthatseems to be the root of all my problems.
She came to me because she was desperate. Because she knew she could count on me. I could see the defeat in her eyes when I told her no the first time. I could feel the worry and regardless of how I feel about Melissa Gaines, I know that if it were my sister, I’d want to find her, too.
Fuck, I wouldn’t stop until I did.
“Jesus Christ.” I run a hand over my face, scrubbing away the regret from watching her tear up. So she’s upset. You know who else is upset? All those families her sister helped ruin.
I step back into the office, looking around. It’s nice. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. People can sit down in the lobby now. I inspect the counter and find everything laid out and labeled. It looks a hell of a lot better than anything I could have done. Dad’s magazines are neatly arranged in the rack. The old fake plant Mom brought when I was only twelve has been dusted and the bathroom has been cleaned for the first time in years. Maybe ever.
Something about how clean everything looks pisses me off. Who does she think she is? She can’t just show up and fuck up the one thing that’s kept me going. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the dirt or maybe it’s because I can’t be mad at her, even if I try to be.
I’ve done everything in my power to get her to quit at this point, but she just rolls with the punches. Her being here isdangerous and iftheyfind out about her, that’ll be me signing my own death warrant.
I don’t need these problems. She doesn’t need these problems.
