Chapter 5 Tessa
Tessa
Isit in Ben’s truck for a full three minutes before I can make myself get out.
It’s Thursday morning, the January air sharp enough to sting, and I’ve been giving myself a pep talk since I left my apartment. This is simple. Pick up the car. Get a yes on the bachelor auction. Leave. Three tasks. I’ve managed events for five hundred people. I can handle one stubborn mechanic.
Except Ben Wilson’s scent is everywhere in this truck, and I’ve been breathing it for three days now.
Leather and musk and something warm underneath, worked into the steering wheel, the headrest, the jacket I forgot to bring back.
Every time I get in, it hits me. Every time I get out, I feel like I’m peeling myself away from something I shouldn’t want.
I take one more deep breath—mistake, huge mistake—and force myself out into the cold.
Ben’s shop is on the street behind Main, close enough to walk to everything but far enough that the noise doesn’t bother anyone.
The big garage doors are cracked open despite the temperature, warm yellow light spilling out onto the icy gravel.
I can hear music from inside, something classic rock turned down low, and the occasional clang of metal.
I’ve got my clipboard. I’ve got my list. I’ve got approximately forty-seven arguments prepared for why Ben needs to participate in the bachelor auction.
What I don’t have is any explanation for why my heart is pounding like I’m about to walk into a job interview.
“Get it together, Lang,” I mutter, and push through the door.
The garage smells like motor oil and cold metal and him. It hits me the second I step inside, and every omega instinct I have lights up at once. Alpha. Territory. Safe.
Not safe. Annoying. Ben Wilson is annoying.
I spot him immediately. He’s bent over the engine of Mrs. Patterson’s ancient Volvo, flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms streaked with grease.
There’s a smudge of oil on his jaw he hasn’t noticed, and his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it.
When he reaches for a wrench, the muscles in his back shift under his shirt, and I absolutely do not watch the way his shoulders flex.
I am not staring. I am assessing the situation.
“Tessa.” He doesn’t look up. “You’re early.”
“I’m on time. You said nine.”
“I said nine-ish.”
“There was no ‘ish.’ I have it written down.” I hold up my clipboard as evidence.
Ben straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already more grease than fabric. When he finally looks at me, his jaw tightens for just a second before he smooths it out.
“Course you do.” He tosses the rag aside and leans against the Volvo, arms crossed. “Car’s done. Keys are on the counter.”
“Great. Thank you.” I don’t move toward the counter. “Now about the auction—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Didn’t need to. Answer’s still no.”
“Ben.” I take a step closer, and his scent gets stronger. My skin prickles with awareness. “The community center roof is literally falling apart. Annie Winslow had to put out buckets last week. Buckets, Ben. During the senior knitting circle.”
“Tragic.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” But his mouth is twitching. “I’m just not doing the auction.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s my reason.” He pushes off the Volvo and walks toward the workbench, putting distance between us.
I watch him go—the loose confidence in his stride, the way his jeans sit on his hips.
The garage is warmer near the space heater in the corner, but I can still see my breath fogging slightly in the colder pockets of air.
“You’ve got seven other guys. You don’t need me. ”
“I need eight. The budget requires eight.”
“So find someone else.”
“There is no one else!” I follow him, because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts. “You’re the last bachelor I need. Milo helped me get the other four, so it’s just you.”
Ben’s shoulders tense. “Yeah. Milo mentioned that.”
“You talked to Milo about this?”
“He might’ve brought it up.” His voice is carefully flat. “At the bar. Last night.”
Great. So everyone in town is discussing my bachelor shortage. “Well, then you know the situation. I need eight. I have seven. You’re the last one.”
“And I’m still saying no.”
“Why? What is your problem with this?”
“I’m plenty helpful in other ways. I fixed your car, didn’t I?”
“For which I’m paying you.”
“Damn right you are.” He grabs a socket wrench and fiddles with it, not really doing anything. His hands are big, capable, knuckles scraped from work. “Speaking of which—where’d you park my truck?”
“Out front.”
“Good. I’ll need to—” He stops. Sets down the wrench. “Actually, hold on.”
He walks past me toward the garage doors, and I follow, confused. He heads straight for his truck, opens the driver’s side door, and goes completely still.
“What the hell.”
I bite my lip. “I might have tidied up a little.”
“A little?” He’s staring at the interior like he’s never seen it before. Which, in fairness, he probably hasn’t—not like this. “Tessa. What did you do to my truck?”
“I organized it.”
“You—” He opens the glove box. Stares at the labeled dividers. Closes it. Opens it again. “There are tabs. There are labeled tabs in my glove box.”
“For registration, insurance, and receipts. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You didn’t have to.” I’m fighting a smile now. “I couldn’t find your registration when I needed it. It took me twenty minutes. It was under a pile of napkins and what I think was a very old burrito wrapper.”
“That wrapper was sentimental.”
“It was moldy.”
“Sentimental mold.” But he’s leaning into the truck now, taking in the cup holder organizer, the door pocket bins, the complete absence of trash on the floor. “I can see my floor. I didn’t know my floor was that color.”
“It’s gray. You’re welcome.”
He turns to look at me, and his expression is caught somewhere between horror and something else I can’t quite name. “You organized my entire truck.”
“I was stressed. I organize when I’m stressed.”
“Most people stress-eat. Or stress-drink. You stress-organize other people’s vehicles.”
“Ben, there was a french fry under your seat from what I can only assume was the Clinton administration.”
“That fry was a friend.”
“That fry was a health hazard.”
He’s staring at me now, jaw working, and I can’t tell if he wants to yell at me or laugh. Maybe both.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t know whether to thank me or ban me from your truck forever.”
“I’m considering both.” But his mouth is twitching. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“I prefer ‘helpful.’“
“You would.” He shakes his head and heads back into the garage. I follow, because I still need my actual car keys.
He grabs them from the counter and holds them out. “Now, you’ve got your car. Anything else?”
I take the keys but don’t move toward my car. “Actually, yes. The auction.”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Didn’t need to. Answer’s still no.”
Ben groans, dropping his head back in obvious frustration. The movement exposes the line of his throat, and I definitely don’t stare at it. I am a professional. I am here on business. I do not notice the way his pulse is beating just above his collar.
“You’re impossible,” he says to the ceiling.
“I prefer persistent.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.” I move to the other side of the workbench, putting some distance between us. My skin is prickling, my pulse doing something annoying, and I don’t need to be closer to him right now. “Impossible implies there’s no way through. Persistent just means I haven’t found it yet.”
He lifts his head to look at me. “And you always find a way through?”
“Always.”
“What happens when you don’t?”
“That’s never happened.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
He goes quiet. He’s looking at me differently now—like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe like he’s been seeing me all along and doesn’t know what to do about it. “You’re really something, Tessa Lang.”
I don’t know what to do with that. It’s not quite a compliment, not quite an insult. It’s just... honest. And honesty from Ben feels dangerous.
“Is that a yes to the auction?” Deflecting. I’m definitely deflecting.
“It’s an observation.” He turns back to his tools. “Answer’s still no.”
We’re closer now. I don’t remember moving, but somehow there’s only a few feet between us.
The space heater in the corner is pumping out warmth, but that’s not why my cheeks feel flushed.
His scent is curling around me, through me, making it hard to think about anything except how good he smells and how annoying that is.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say.
“And you’re being stubborn.”
“I’m being persistent. There’s a difference.” I cross my arms. “Stubborn is refusing to participate in a charity event for no good reason. Persistent is me trying to save the community center despite people being unreasonable.”
Ben laughs. Actually laughs, low and warm, and—okay, that’s annoying. That sound should not do things to my insides. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Never.”
“That’s either admirable or terrifying.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
He’s looking at me differently now. Less guarded, more... something. His eyes drop to my mouth for a split second before snapping back up, and I feel it like a touch.
“You cold?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re shivering.”
I’m not shivering from cold. I’m shivering because his scent is everywhere and my body doesn’t know how to handle it. But I can’t say that, so I just shrug. “It’s January. Your garage isn’t exactly tropical.”
“Brilliant observation.” He grabs a jacket from a hook near the space heater—his jacket, the one I’ve seen him wear a hundred times, worn soft at the cuffs—and holds it out. “Here.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re shivering. Take the jacket.”
“If I take the jacket, will you do the auction?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t want the jacket.”