Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Cordelia
I wake up the next morning to the sun shining on my face through the one small window in my living room.
My head feels clearer than it has in weeks, and I stretch leisurely, savoring that in-between of consciousness and sleep.
Then my eyelids flutter, and I shoot to a sitting position.
Why is the sun in my face? I always wake up around 4 a.m. The sun is never out when I open my eyes.
“What time is it?” I scramble to get my phone from the nightstand and blanch. It’s eight-thirty.
I rush through my morning routine, jump on my bike, and tear a path to the garage. As I arrive, I toss my helmet haphazardly at the handlebar and run under the main tent.
April and Rebel are already there, working on their cars.
I stop in front of them, out of breath and panicked. “I’m sorry I’m late. I overslept and didn’t set an alarm and…”
“Delia, breathe. Breathe,” Rebel coaches. “You’re here before either of us most days, and you’re the last to leave. You’ve earned a day or two of sleeping in.”
“We saved you a donut,” April says, nudging a box at me. It’s from Phil’s Donuts. Phil bakes, arguably, the best donuts in the entire state.
“Chocolate?”
“That would require us to have a level of discipline neither of us possess,” Rebel states.
I chuckle. My bosses aren’t angry with me, which proves they are way better bosses than I was. If anyone in my office back in the city had been late to work, there would have been consequences.
April’s eyes search mine. “You look better today. More rested.”
I feel more rested.
After Renthrow offered to be my fake boyfriend, I ran upstairs to wish Gordie goodbye and left. I wasn’t sleepy at all when I got home, so I pulled out my notes and got to studying my waveforms.
I have no idea when I fell asleep, but I got a solid eight hours in, which is unheard of for me.
“Thanks. I feel better too.”
April is the first to retreat to her side of the garage, but Rebel sticks around.
She scoops her long, blond hair into a ponytail, smiling at me. “Did you solve that problem with the throttle position sensor?”
“April gave me some pointers, and I was able to isolate the gear that’s sticking.”
“Cool.”
“I heard you’re the new owner of Stewart Kinsey’s garage,” I say, taking a bite of the donut.
“Yeah.” Rebel’s grin turns mischievous. “Hypothetical question, but how do you feel about running a garage?”
I nearly choke on the donut. “Me?”
She nods.
“I’m still learning. I don’t think I’m in a position to head anything.”
“Hm.” Rebel flattens the collar of her pink jumpsuit.
“Why? Are you looking for someone to manage Kinsey’s garage?”
“I am.”
“Why not promote the most senior technician there?”
She pinches her lips. “The senior techs weren’t happy that I’m the new owner. They quit.”
“Oh no.”
“The ones who stayed don’t have the managerial experience. Running a mechanic shop isn’t just about knowing the trade. You’re also in charge of customer service, inventory, organization, and managing stubborn mechanics who want to do things their way.”
“I hope I’m not considered that type of mechanic.”
“No.” She laughs.
“Hiring qualified people is one of the most difficult parts of owning a company. I once tried to fill the CFO position at one of our subsidiary companies, and it was very difficult to find someone both experienced and trustworthy.”
Rebel stares at me. “I love how you oh-so-casually mention that you ran a million-dollar company and come from one of the richest families in the country.”
“To be fair, I only ran the company for a year, and I was awful at it. So please forget I said anything.” I scarf down the rest of my donut. “What are you going to do about the CEO position at Stewart’s garage? Are you going to keep working at The Pink Garage too? You can’t be both places at once.”
“April already read me the riot act, and I don’t plan to leave The Pink Garage. I asked May to put out another advertisement.” Rebel gives me a friendly tap on the shoulder. “It worked the first time.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
We exchange smiles, and then Rebel goes off to start her own repair work.
After washing my hands, I approach the large truck in the east bay and pop the hood open. The engine sprawls before me, rusty and dirty and begging for help.
And I’m just the woman for the job.
My hair gets into my face while I work, so I thoughtlessly push it back behind my ear. Then I remember Renthrow’s fingers sliding over my cheeks and doing the same.
I’m instantly back in his living room, his body close to mine, his touch languid, and his breath dusting the side of my neck.
Heat blazes under my skin, and I chew on my bottom lip.
I am not doing this.
It’s enough that the man’s cooking had me imitating Sleeping Beauty. Renthrow and I struck a deal, and I need to remain professional. Melting into a puddle every time he touches me would be a disaster.
I force my thoughts back on work and, thankfully, I actually like what I do, so it’s not a difficult task.
For hours, all that can be heard in the garage is the rumble of car engines, the slam of metal against metal when Rebel fires up her welding machine, and April talking to customers on the phone.
Sometime after 11 a.m., my stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the roar of the cars. I set a hand there, wincing. I was in such a rush, I didn’t even bring any of my microwavable lunch boxes.
After the third whale call, I realize my stomach won’t be ignored.
“Hey, Rebel!” I call.
My boss lifts her head out of the engine she’s repairing. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to the grocery store to pick up some lunch.”
“Do you want to come to the Tuna with us? We’re meeting Gunner and Chance before they head to the stadium for Max’s big announcement.”
I shake my head. “I’m still working on the sensor, so I don’t want to take long.”
Rebel waves me on.
I swing my legs over my bike and grab my helmet. At that moment, a familiar car turns the curb and heads to the garage.
I recognize Mrs. Renthrow’s car immediately.
Hanging back, I wait until the vehicle parks, expecting to see a grey-haired, spritely woman in the front seat.
Instead, a six-foot-four hockey player unfolds himself from the minivan and walks toward me. He’s wearing a dark suit that must be tailored because it’s impossible to find an off-the-rack brand that could fit such broad shoulders so perfectly.
“Renthrow? What are you doing here?”
He nods at me. “Hey.”
I hop off my bike and scramble close to him. “Is Gordie okay?” I lower my voice. “Did she have another episode after I left?”
“Gordie’s fine.” His hazel eyes drop to my helmet and back up. “Going somewhere?”
Words form in my brain, but they don’t make their way to my throat. He’s standing right beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something rich and spicy and glorious. What is that scent?
“Cordelia?”
I jump in my skin. The way he says my full name is deliciously deep and intimate. I swear I’ve never heard anyone say it the way he does, and I kind of wish he’d stop. “I’m… What was the question?”
There’s a smile on his lips. Why is he smiling so much around me now? Can’t we go back to the days when he snarled and snapped instead?
I struggle to get back on top of the conversation. My eyes land on his mother’s car. “Do you need me to come over today? I can look at your car and get it back up and running.”
“I’d appreciate that. Mom’s car is nice, but it’s…” He squints at the van with all the Eat, Pray, Love bumper stickers. “Not really my style.”
I laugh.
His mouth tugs up in a wider grin.
“I’ll be there.” I tilt my head to the side. “You know, this could have been a phone call.”
“True, but I don’t have your number.”
“Oh.” I realize that he’s right. “Give me your phone.”
He hands it over. His wallpaper is a picture of Gordie grinning up at the camera. She has one hand on a telescope, and in the background, is a poster of the stars. They must have taken this at the science museum.
“There you go.” I hand the phone back.
“You saved your name as Delia?”
“You could change it to Fake Girlfriend.”
“I like Cordelia better.”
“My friends call me Delia.”
His eyes darken, and he steps closer. “But I’m not just a friend, am I?”
Oh no.
The butterflies are back.
I glance away. “It doesn’t matter what you save my name as. Just know that my mother will be watching everything. She has eyes like a hawk.”
“Let me make an adjustment then.” He taps on his phone and then shows me the screen.
Cordelia.
He’s added a red heart next to my name.
My own heart thrums in response.
“Convincing, right?” he asks softly.
It’s exactly what he said after he pushed my hair behind my ear last night, and I blush.
Mayday, mayday.
“Is that all? I was actually heading out to get some food.” I walk my bike backward as I speak, but I’m so flustered that my grip on the helmet slips and it goes tumbling down. Renthrow catches it with his quick reflexes and hands it to me.
“Where were you headed?”
“The grocery store. The deli has fresh tuna sandwiches around this time.”
“Tuna sandwiches?” Two lines of concern embed in his forehead. “Is that all you eat for lunch?”
“Most days, yeah.”
He purses his lips and then abruptly stalks back to the van. When he returns, he has a lunch bag in tow.
“Have this,” he says.
“No, no. I can’t take your food.”
You most certainly can, my stomach growls, recalling the feast I had last night.
Renthrow scolds me. “Eating tuna sandwiches every day should be illegal.”
“I can’t.”
He takes my hand in his, and I jolt like I’ve been hit with electricity. Slipping the bag over my arm, he places it securely on my shoulder.
“Bring the containers back when you stop by later.”
“But—”
He checks his watch. “I gotta go. I have a meeting with Max before the announcement. Enjoy.”
Before I can say another word, Renthrow retreats to his car and drives off.
Guess I won’t be having sandwiches for lunch.
I’ll admit…I’m excited to eat his food again. I climb off my bike and return to the garage. Both of my bosses are grinning at me like kids who saw Santa Claus creeping around the chimney.
“What?”
“You and Renthrow?” Rebel wiggles her eyebrows.
“We’ve decided to fake a relationship,” I explain, sounding guilty to my own ears. “In front of my mother.”
“Oh. Right. Is that why he brought you lunch?”
“He didn’t bring me lunch. He asked me to check on his car, and he happened to offer me—look, it’s not like that.”
“Mm-hm.” Rebel grins even harder. “The Pink Garage has a phone number. He could have called.”
My eyelashes flutter. Are they right? Did Renthrow come over intentionally to see me?
No way. He doesn’t like me like that. He’s only tolerating me for Gordie’s sake. I can’t delude myself into thinking he feels anything more.
“Can I see it?” April begs.
“You want to see…his lunch box?”
“Everyone in town knows about Renthrow’s lunch boxes.”
Rebel presses in too. “If he wasn’t a hockey player, he could run one of those ASMR cooking channels. The man has skills. Gordie’s lunches were even featured in the school newspaper. It’s that next-level.”
Curious, I tear the lunch bag open and peer inside.
Rebel’s smile droops when she sees the neatly scooped rice and chicken-salad bowl.
“It looks delicious,” April says, her own smile a bit disappointed. “But it’s not what I heard.”
“Guess he only takes special care of Gordie’s lunch and not his own,” Rebel says.
The ladies wander off while I continue staring at the simple, unremarkable meal.
I guess he only cares for Gordie’s lunch and not his own.
Why do I feel like that’s true in areas outside of packed lunches too? And why do I suddenly have the urge to see Viking Renthrow receive all the care he denies himself and so selflessly offers to his daughter?