Chapter 1
Entirely Yours
Tessa
Iheld my steering wheel so tightly it felt like it or my fingers would break.
Little-by-little, I convinced myself to relax.
Outside my driver's side window, cars sped past me on the freeway as I focused on the long grass swaying in the wind they left in their wake.
My heart still raced even though at this point, I was technically safe.
"It's just a flat tire," I whispered over the roar of blood in my ears. The pop had been loud, but it hadn't sent my car into an uncontrollable fishtail or anything. "It was just an exciting few seconds, that's all. It's done now."
"Shit," I hissed, realizing it was now my job to change my first ever tire on the shoulder as cars screamed past me.
I decided I had at least sixty more seconds to calm the fuck down.
The freeway noise was so much louder outside of my vehicle, undoing all the deep breathing I'd done to lower my shoulders from my earlobes.
Totes and boxes I'd just rented from the Darling Civic Players costume closet were sitting at a steep angle on the embankment.
I was about one semi away from it all toppling down the hill.
I had five whole pennies to produce The Music Man—my least favorite play ever, but we already had the script—for the high school's Spring play, and I needed those costumes to remain pristine in order to get my deposit back.
I'd slipped on my way back up to the road, leaving half of my bright pink leggings and hypno-kitty tank top covered in mud.
But I'd pulled my spare tire out of its hidey-hole, along with the plus-sign-shaped-tool-thingy and diamond-shaped jack.
I laid them out on the ground behind my bumper to assess.
How exactly they should work? It took a few seconds to decide that I needed YouTube University for this one.
I begged to no one, that I had somehow blown my tire in a pocket of cell service—I didn't. The west coast of Michigan's lower peninsula was fresh with cherry orchards and asparagus, but not cell service.
I was so close to Grand Ridge, my home. And where I stood a chance of a friend or cousin driving by and offering help.
"No." I squared my shoulders. "I can do this. None of this is brain surgery."
The jack was surprisingly heavy in my hands.
The metal pinched the pads of my fingers just a little as I wondered if there was a top or bottom or if it was universal.
I chewed my lower lip and walked to the side of my car irritated as hell that I didn't know how to do this.
Twenty-nine years on this earth, eighteen years of education, and all I could think in this moment was, I need my dad.
Behind me, a vehicle crunched on the rocks and gravel at the side of the road, stopping me mid-crouch. The sun reflected off of the windshield, making it impossible to see the driver, but I recognized the teal Jeep, unfortunately.
Emiliano Vazquez.
He slid out of the driver's side door, with a serious set to his lips and sunglasses covering his eyes.
His thick, curly black hair ended just below his jaw.
He wasn't much taller than my five feet six inches.
His frame was densely muscular under a tank-top that had the vintage MTV logo on it, tucked into those slutty shorts men wore—the ones that showed at least half of their thighs.
In a few hours the sun would set and the weather would be too cold for either of our outfits. But for now, we could pretend it was almost summer.
And despite being my sworn enemy, he did in fact pull off of the slutty shorts very well.
He taught math at the high school where I taught English.
The math of it all was a red flag—to each their own, but math was the worst. Also, the man was incapable of dumping used coffee grounds into the trash—all of those muscles and he couldn't even lift the coffee maker lid.
And even though we technically didn't have assigned parking spots, every other month he'd park in mine.
It happened too often to be unintentional, which he didn't deny when I called him on it, but he also didn't confess.
Monster.
He took easy steps toward me. "Hey, I saw your tire blow. Are you okay?"
"You saw it?"
"Yeah, I was driving behind you." He pointed down the freeway and then over his shoulder, explaining, "Going from exit-to-exit, and then entrance to get turned around, took a few minutes. I wanted to…make sure you're good."
"Did you know it was me?"
He pushed his sunglasses into his hair and narrowed his dark brown eyes at me. "I don't think I could mistake your car for anyone else's."
I raised my eyebrows in acceptance. My car wasn't exceptional, but it had a sticker on it of Bella on Edward's back that read, My other ride is Edward Cullen.
"I guess you're good, then?" he asked again.
Jerking my head in something like confirmation, I gripped the jack in front of me with both hands. It was getting really heavy.
"So"—he pointed over his shoulder at his Jeep—"I should just go."
"Mmm," I hummed with my lips pinched tight, knowing that if I let them open, I'd say something like, No, don't go. Save me.
It was these moments that I wished I could be less principled. It didn't happen often, just sometimes.
It was asinine.
Was he really to blame for the high school's budget decisions for clubs and sports?
No, but he could try. When they threw money at him, he could be like, We can use the same bullhorn I yelled at the kids with last year. Give ten more dollars to the theater instead.
But he didn't do that. And I didn't need to be cool with him.
"Okay, if you've got it all taken care of." His hand fell to his thigh with a slap.
So, slutty.
It distracted me enough that my guard dropped to call after his back. "Do you actually know how to do it?"
"Change a tire?" He planted his feet to face me with his arms crossed over his chest.
Great arms. Visibly—he was very pleasing.
"Don't say it like it's embarrassing to not know," I argued.
He sighed the beleaguered sigh of someone who didn't expect a fight.
It was like he didn't even know me.
"I want to know what you mean by it," he explained. "I know how to do lots of it's. I do it, all the time."
I pursed my lips, fighting back a laugh. Realization dawning on his face.
He shook his head. "You're as bad as the students."
"It was just a little braggy. I don't need to know that much about your personal life. Should I report this?"
"I think administration is sick of hearing you complain."
"I have grievances!"
"As we all know."
"God forbid a woman speak her mind"—
"Close the floodgates. We don't need to do this," he interrupted, but I kept going.
—"I'm not going to keep quiet because it would make it easier on you"—
"No one would accuse you of making things easy."
—"Just because everyone else worships you and that concussion-ridden sport"—
"Jesus, at this rate, we could fill the tire with your hot air."
—"Doesn't mean I'm going to"—
"Damn it, Tessa, do you want help or not?"
"No."
"Okay"—
"But I need it." It pained me to admit, "I don't know how to do this."
His dark eyes softened around the edges, and I wondered if I'd ever seen eyelashes as long as his.
He took a step closer, taking hold of the jack clutched in my fingers and lifted it with much more ease than I had been capable of. I turned my face up to meet his gaze. I'd never been this near to him—he smelled so. Fucking. Good. Something slightly citrus and woodsy.
It might have been my imagination, but it seemed like his voice lowered with a new scrape of grit. It rolled through me like a thunderstorm as he offered, "I can do it for you. Or I can teach you."