6. Some Violets Don’t Shrink
I SHOULD NOT have let Tate help me with my car last night. I knew it would change things, and it did. Even more than our office interlude.
I could have handled a physical sort of interaction. I’ve wrapped my head around how our bickery dynamic could boil over. Could combust.
But Tate didn’t even try to kiss me last night. He was a perfect gentleman, patiently explaining each step of replacing my dead battery. Letting me do all the work and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. Like when it was time to lift the damn thing out. It weighed a freaking million pounds, and I was a little worried I’d get electrocuted if I touched the wrong spot.
Of a dead battery. That’s how messed up my brain was by what was happening.
And it’s still just as messed up today. Still just as glued to Tate’s every move as he goes about his day. Working in his office. Checking in on the girls in the back.
Loitering around the front desk.
He’s distracting as hell, and by the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m not sure if I want to run away or climb him like a tree.
Actually, I know which of those I’d most like to do. I just can’t. It’s been easy to write off my feelings for Tate as lust. Attraction. Sexual compatibility. But last night proved there’s more between us, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
So I decide to run like the chicken I am. I know I can’t escape him forever, I just need a little space after being so close to him all day. A little time where the scent of his skin isn’t permeating my every breath. I’ve just got to finish the last of my front desk duties and then I can tuck tail and hide in my room.
Nancy and I are always the last two out, and tonight it’s killing me. I move as fast as I can through the process of closing out the desk, counting the money and filling a deposit bag, organizing all the credit card receipts, and setting up the coffee maker to start brewing at seven. By the time it’s all finished, I’m relieved—and maybe a tiny bit disappointed—to find Tate’s office is dark.
We’re almost to the back door when I notice I’m missing something. “Shit.” I shake my purse, hoping to see the conglomerate of keychains hiding in one of the pockets, but it’s not there. “I must have left my keys up front.” I wave her on. “You go.” Nancy still needs to drop the deposit bag off at the bank, and I don’t want to waste even more of her evening. “I’ll lock up.”
She stalls out just outside the back door, propping it open with one hip. “I’m not leaving you to walk out alone. Tate would kill me.”
I roll my eyes at the mention of his name, more out of habit than anything. “I’m fine. And it’s none of Tate’s business what I do outside of working hours.”
My front desk partner gives me the mom look, but I’m prepared to hold my ground. Except, instead of fighting with me, Nancy glances out into the lot, the set of her mouth softening before she turns back my way. “Fine.” She gives me a little grin. “Have a good night.”
I’m still standing there when the door closes behind her. That was easy. Way easier than I expected it to be. Maybe a little too easy.
I probably shouldn”t look a gift horse in the mouth, but Nancy”s not usually that chill. She”s kinda like me. She holds her ground and digs in her heels even when the water starts to rise.
Then again, maybe she just really wants to get the fuck home. Maybe she”s ready to curl up on her couch with a glass of red to watch the newest episode of Ninety-day Fiancé.
I hustle back to the front desk, because the more I think about it, the more Nancy”s plan sounds like a good one. I scan my workspace, looking for the pile containing a handful of the keychains I”ve collected over the years, including the miniature wrench I bought when Tate offered me a job here. I wish I could say I think of this place when I see it, but the stupid thing only reminds me of him.
I growl in frustration—both at my lack of keys and my inability to brush off my feelings for Tate. “Why can’t you just keep it together?” I run my hands along all the shelves, digging deep in case they got shoved to the back.
Unfortunately, they’re not anywhere on or in the counter. I drop down to my hands and knees, crawling around to see if they got knocked off and fell underneath the computer stations, but there”s still no sign of them. Pushing up from the floor, I wince a little at the twinge in my formerly broken ankle as I look around, trying to think of where else they might be.
My stomach drops my toes.
What if I flipping locked them in the car?
”Fuck.” I stalk back down the hall. I don”t bother hiding my limp as I go. There”s no reason to hide my weakness when no one’s here to see it.
I reach the exit and stop before opening the door, realizing I might be double fucked. My work keys are also on the same keychain and the door locks automatically when it shuts.
”Ugh.” My forehead falls to the glass and I suck in a deep breath. Never in my life has a man had me so turned around.
Actually, that”s not true. There was one man who royally fucked with my head—and my life—but this is different. Very different.
And I will handle this too. I’m not a fucking shrinking violet. I control my life. My thoughts.
My feelings.
I take another deep breath before stepping out into the lot, holding the door open as I look around for something to wedge into it so it doesn”t lock behind me. In the process of looking for that item, I notice something else is missing. Something way more concerning than my keys.
Where the fuck is my car?
I’m staring at the spot I know I parked it in this morning, jaw hanging open, confused about where in the hell an entire used sedan could have disappeared to, when Tate comes walking out of the closest work bay. He”s got a rag in his hands and flashes me a dimpled smile. ”Are you coming?”
I look back into the shop. Then at the spot where I am positive I parked. ”Where”s my car?”
Tate tips his head at the open door. ”I”ve got it on the lift.” He slowly comes my way, each step unhurried, but I swear I feel every one of them like a heartbeat under my skin. ”Last night I noticed the sticker in your window said you were overdue for an oil change, so I figured I’d teach you how to change your own oil too.”
This is a fucking nightmare.
I can handle him being a dick. Mostly.
I can handle all the smartass and sarcastic comments. Usually.
But this? Showing me how to take care of myself like it’s nothing? This is—
Some bullshit.
I swallow hard as he comes to a stop in front of me, thick biceps stretching his worn T-shirt. Broad chest doing the same. I can already smell his flipping cologne and my resistance will crumble if I’m not careful. ”I didn”t ask you to teach me how to change my oil.” I”m cornered, and the first thing I do when that happens is lash out. ”You can”t just steal my car.”
”Didn”t steal your car. I pulled it into one of the bays.” He swings the rag he”s been wiping his hands on over one broad shoulder. ”And you said you wanted to handle things on your own, so I”m helping you handle them on your own.”
I don”t like this. Not at all. I don”t like it, because of how much I do like it. How good it feels to have somebody understand me. To not be threatened by my hyper independence.
Hell, Tate’s even encouraging it.
He motions with his chin in the direction of the bay. ”Come on. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”
I pull in a deep breath and blow it back out. I can’t get my car off the lift and I know exactly how far beyond needing an oil change it is, so I lift my chin, ready to steel myself against him and all his frustratingly desirable ways. ”Fine.”
I plan to follow behind him, but Tate falls into step beside me. We”ve only gone a few feet when his blue gaze dips, fixing on my braced angle. ”You”re limping.”
”Am not.” In fact, I”m working very hard not to limp.
”You are. You”re favoring that ankle.” His eyes come back to my face. ”You’ve been overdoing it.”
I shoot him what I hope is a dirty look. ”And now you”re gonna make me work even more.”
Tate flashes me a grin. ”I”m sure we can figure out a way to give your foot a rest while we work.” We reach the bay and he holds up one finger, leaving me standing at the open door as he runs into the main building. He comes back a minute later, rolling two office chairs in front of him, one gripped in each hand. ”Sit in this.” He pushes one toward me, holding it steady.
I huff out another breath, because at this point I feel like all I do is roll my eyes and if I don’t quit, I”m gonna strain something. ”You”re being ridiculous.”
”Says the woman who refuses to accept that she might actually need time to heal.” He angles the other chair my way, turning it so the front of the seat faces me. Before I fully grasp his intentions, Tate is gently lifting my leg. He carefully places it in the seat of the other chair, elevating it in front of me.
It”s the first time his hands have been on me since our collision in his office, and I suck in a breath as his calloused fingers brush over my skin. I love how rough they are. Love feeling the evidence of all the work he puts in. Of all he”s capable of accomplishing.
When he crouches and his touch drifts down to brush across the tips of my toes, I grip the arms of my seat, doing my best not to react.
Tate touches the tip of one finger to my freshly polished toenails. ”I didn”t realize how much you like hot pink.”
I swallow hard. ”What makes you think I like hot pink?” I regret the question the second it slides out. I already feel too seen by this man. Further proof of just how well he”s paying attention is only going to sink the claws of my feelings for him deeper.
Deep enough to draw blood.
He tips his head to one side, making it seem like the assumption was easy to make. ”Your toes. Your puffy keychain.” One finger traces up my brace, and I swear I can feel his touch through the ugly-ass binding. ”And your old cast.”
“My old cast was pretty fucking pink.” I frown down at the monstrosity on my ankle. “Way cuter than this ugly-ass thing.”
Tate looks over the brace, falling quiet for long enough I’m a little worried about what exactly he’s thinking. He pinches one of the Velcro strips running down the front, pulling it back so he can inspect what’s inside. “Can you take this off?”
“That’s why it has Velcro.” There’s not as much venom in my snap as I wish there was. “I sleep without it, but I’m supposed to wear it whenever I’m on my feet until I go back for my checkup.”
He traces one of the plastic panels surrounding the knit sleeve that hugs my leg. “I could probably make this a little less offensive if you don’t mind hanging out a little longer.”
I want to reject the offer outright. Being around Tate is bad for my health. I know that. But staring at this awful, gray and black boot isn’t doing much for my attitude, and it leaves a lot to be desired to begin with. “What can you do?”
He sits back on his heels, continuing to look over my brace. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got some water-based hot pink paint over in the body shop.” He wiggles his brows at me. “With shimmer.”
That has me sitting a little straighter. I’ve given up so much in the past few months. My apartment. My job. My cute shoes. I know painting this thing won’t make it a strappy pair of sandals, but it will sure as hell make it better than it is. “How long will it take to dry?”
“If we do it now, it’ll be dry by the time we’re finished changing your oil.”
My plans to hide away from Tate suddenly seem less imperative. “Let’s do it.”
Tate rewards my enthusiasm with a panty-melting grin. Wonder what he would think if he knew my panties are also hot pink. I’m half tempted to show him. I’ll be more than half tempted if he can make me hate this brace a little less. Maybe boning him again would be the best idea anyway. Try to rewire my brain so it only thinks about him in a physical sort of way. Securely slotting him in that emotionally detached spot forever. Might be the best idea I’ve ever had.
An hour later, my boot is taped off and sprayed in the prettiest, sparkliest pink I’ve ever seen. It looks so good I’m wondering what my car might look like in the same color. Probably blinding, which only makes it more tempting.
While my boot dries, Tate wheels me back into the bay where we started, leaving me while he collects what we need. Then, like he did last night, he patiently explains each step of the oil changing process. Going so far as to lower the lift so I can see better, even though it means he has to crouch. We’ve got the old oil draining and Tate’s explaining how to tell if I need a new filter, when a car pulls up outside.
People drop their cars off after hours all the time, but never back here. I sit up a little straighter when the driver’s door opens, eyes darting around as I search for something I can use as a weapon. My purse is clear across the room, along with the hammer I stole from Tate’s office that’s tucked inside it. Making things worse, I don’t have my brace on and I’m not sure how fast I can move without it. I’m basically a sitting duck. Unable to defend myself if I have to. Unable to run away—not that I would.
“Relax.” Tate crouches down next to me, his voice is low and calm. “That’s just our dinner.” His gaze moves over my face a second longer, like he’s looking for something.
Something I probably don’t want him to see.
I try to school my features. Try to hide the fear that was just biting at my insides. I must do okay because his unwavering attention moves away from me and to the man coming our way carrying a bag of food that’s way too big for only two people.
Tate collects the bag, thanks the delivery guy, and is back at my side, dropping the food into my lap before wheeling me out from under my draining car. The glorious scent of tomato sauce and garlic drifts up and I can’t resist peeling apart the sealed opening to peek inside.
“I got us lasagna.” Tate lifts my propped-up leg and slides under it, dropping into the seat across from me before settling my ankle across one of his rock-hard thighs. The position is oddly intimate and has me squirming a little in my seat.
“Here.” He slides the bag from my lap to his, leaning back as he unpacks the food like it’s the most normal thing in the world for us to be sitting like this, eating dinner together. “This is one of my favorite places to eat in town.” He pulls out a foil tray and passes it to me. “They have the best Italian food I’ve ever had.”
I take a plastic packed set of silverware from his outstretched hand. “Lasagna is my favorite.” Like everything else about this moment, the admission makes me feel exposed in a way I don’t normally allow.
Shouldn’t allow now.
“I know.” Tate fishes out his own dinner and sets the bag on the floor beside his chair. “I’ve seen you tear it up at family dinners.”
I scoff. “I do not.”
“Do too.” Tate digs out a forkful of noodle and sauce. “I was scared to get too close. Thought I might lose a hand.”
I try not to laugh. I really do.
But the shit-eating grin he gives me before he takes a bite of his dinner makes it impossible to keep a straight face. To cover the slip, I cram in a huge bite, letting out a little moan when the cheesy, garlicky goodness hits my tongue.
Tate settles back in his seat, looking pleased as punch with himself. “Good, right?”
“You know damn well it’s good.” I shovel in more because holy hell this might be the best lasagna I’ve ever had.
“I’m glad you like it.” Tate isn’t doing much eating. He’s mostly watching me.
And it makes me all squirmy again so I try to redirect his attention. Dipping my chin toward the bag at his feet, I ask, “What else is in there?”
He leans over to peek inside, like he wasn’t the one who ordered it. “I got a couple more dinners for my fridge. My kitchen isn’t really set up for cooking.”
The food in my stomach turns to lead as I swallow down the bite in my mouth. It’s not super easy since my throat feels strangely tight. “You know you could change that.” Imagining Tate sitting all by himself in that shell of a house keeps my mouth moving, offering up pure foolishness. “I could help if you want. I’m not super handy, but I know how to swing a hammer.” Maybe not so much in a home improvement way, but still.
Tate’s eyes lock onto mine, holding for a second before dropping to my mouth. When he finally meets my gaze again, the hunger I see there makes it hard to breathe. Especially since I know it’s got nothing to do with his stomach.
He leans forward, reaching out to gently wipe at the corner of my mouth with his paper napkin. His skin doesn’t even touch mine, but the contact still overwhelms me. Because he’s not getting handsy. Not trying to cop a feel or sneak a grab.
He’s taking care of me. Just like fixing my car and painting my brace, Tate’s giving me something I’ve never had. Swore I never wanted.
And I don’t know how to make it stop.
All I know is I have to figure out a way to do it. I can’t be like my mother.
Won’t.
Not even for someone like him.