Chapter 4 - Emma
One hour passes quickly as I sift through the receipts and shop orders. Organizing relaxes me. It's the perfect antidote for the storm passing through me because of August. I’ve realized I want him. When I first met him, right after I came home from college, I had a tiny harmless crush for a few months whenever he visited us. As soon as I moved out, which wasn't long, maybe just a couple of months, our paths rarely crossed and, whenever they did we never really talked, and life happens, boyfriends came and went and I never thought too much about him after that.
Now, the tiny crush has developed into something more potent. It's a potion that mixes my tiny crush from before with my horniness. He oozes sex appeal, one tiny smile, and I'm sure women would be at his feet. But it's something else too. It's the way he talked about Mr. Evans with so much love. It makes me want to get to know this vulnerable side of him, to get past the person he presents to everyone else.
He doesn't seem to do relationships. It seemed to hurt him somehow, and I didn't want to pry any deeper, not when his vulnerability was clear behind his very straightforward answer. "I'm not into relationships". That man can't lie for the life of him, because he might have convinced himself he's not into relationships, but his expression shows he's just guarding his heart. I'm sure whoever hurt him has done major damage. I focus on fixing his paperwork, that is simple and attainable. Fixing his pain might be more difficult, even if it makes me ache like it’s my own.
I had heard a lot of rumors about him. One can't live in a small town without people knowing your business. If I'm not careful, any big news I want to share with my family might already be halfway across town before I get the chance to tell them myself. One of the older rumors, from a couple of years ago, was that his girlfriend had left him for a tourist who’d passed through. The most recent one, though, is that women keep asking him out, and he always says no. Mae from Peak Produce, the town’s unofficial gossip queen, told me she’s witnessed some of his refusals firsthand. She shared this tidbit while ringing up my groceries, in between complaining about her bad back and listing off home remedies she swears by.
I don't know what to believe and rumors will always be rumors, so might as well not think about it too much. August seems to need his privacy and I’ll respect that.
I hear a small knock on the door.
"I need to order something for your car. I don't have the specific part it needs. I can't fix it today." August says as uses a rag to clean off his now oily hands. "I’ll ask Asher to get it tomorrow. Our supplier is just thirty minutes away, and it's an easy fix."
"See? You didn't have to waste your time with my car."
"I didn't waste any time."
"I still have plenty of paperwork to organize. What's this exactly?" I ask him and he gets closer, looking over my shoulder and scrunching his face. My breath hitches as I'm close enough to finally smell him. It's the same smell that filled his car and his sweater, but there's something else... sweat. And why is that making me more aroused? I fight the urge to turn my face, to lick some of that sweat away in his neck.
"Those are notes about one of the cars that's here in the garage. We’ve been working on it for a while. It's a full restoration."
"Can you even read this? Your handwriting is terrible." I giggle because I have no idea how he can decipher these letters.
"I know, but I can." He steps back. "I'll take you home so you can rest."
"I'd rather stay here and organize this."
"And who's the workaholic now?" I hear the smirk in his voice and I cannot not turn to look at him. He’s smiling slightly. I was right. He's even more handsome now, even with just a hint of a smile. But I decide to be honest with him, to talk about something that's been nagging in my brain.
"I had such a shitty night, organizing makes me feel in control. But being stood up on Valentine's Day? That's a whole new level of awful. I mean, being stood up on any day is humiliating, but on Valentine's? That's just too much. What if the guy actually came, saw me, and decided it would be better to spend Valentine's alone than with me?"
"Anyone who would see how you look tonight would stay."
I widen my eyes. Does that mean he likes my dress? But I continue, not wanting to put too much emphasis on his comment. Because I can't, not when I've been thinking about how I'd love him to kiss me and do everything to me on this desk.
"I'm just so tired of these dating games. Why can't people just be honest and send a message instead of ghosting people? It seems no matter what you do, you're going to get burned."
"You deserve better than some idiot who doesn’t show up. Anyone with half a brain would’ve been there early, waiting for you."
"You think?"
"Of course." His gruff tone softens slightly as he mutters, “Not everyone’s smart enough to see what’s right in front of them.”
I love to see him like this, enraged for me. It's nice to be able to talk to him. This has been weighing on me all night, even though this night ended up being special. It was so much easier to lean into my old insecurities, but now that I’ve got it off my chest, I feel so much lighter. And it makes me want to tease him even more. So, I stand up and take two steps towards him. He takes a step back and leans his back against the bookcase.
“Are you calling yourself one of the smart ones, August?”
He stammers and looks the other way, “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
"Do you think I look good in this dress?"
"You look perfect."
He just said I looked perfect. Not good. Not pretty. Perfect.
I see a part of his neck turn pinker, realizing what he said.
"We should go." He is avoiding me, but that's okay for now. I don't want to push him that much, not when I want to be here tomorrow.
"Can I come in tomorrow? I didn't finish and you sure need my help." Can I be with you tomorrow? That's what I want to ask, but this seems safer.
"And you're going to spend your Saturday here organizing my paperwork? Don't you have better things to do?"
"Consider it a payment for rescuing me."
"I told you, it's fine."
"Well, I want to spend my Saturday here."
He doesn't reply and instead marches to the door, signaling me to come with him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s afraid of seeing me again, or at least that’s what I hope it is.