3. Bree
brEE
Three days. That's how long it takes for Bryson Holloway to become the background hum of my entire week, and I still can't figure out if he likes me or wants me removed from the premises.
I keep finding reasons to go back to the station.
This is fine. This is totally normal community involvement and has nothing to do with a man who looks like a mountain with trust issues.
I bring cookies on Monday because the fundraiser committee meeting ran late and I had extras.
I bring brownies on Wednesday because I was testing recipes for my classroom's bake sale and I made too many—three batches too many, if we're being honest, because I was stress-baking at midnight and thinking about the way his hand felt on my waist and I burned the first batch because I was distracted and the second batch because I overcorrected and the third batch came out perfect but by then I had enough brownies to feed a firehouse and isn't that convenient.
I volunteer to help organize the raffle prizes on Thursday because Mrs. Henderson's hip is bothering her and someone needs to sort the donations.
These are all legitimate reasons. None of them have anything to do with the six-foot-four wall of silence who keeps not looking at me so loudly that I can feel it across the room like a change in air pressure.
The thing about Bryson Holloway is that he barely talks to me, but he communicates constantly.
On Monday he held the door when I came in with the cookies.
Didn't say hello. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge me with any word or gesture that a normal human would use.
He just stood there like a sentry, one massive arm bracing the door open, and waited until I was fully inside before he let it close.
The door hold lasted approximately thirty seconds.
I counted. That's a long time to hold a door for someone you're pretending doesn't exist.
On Wednesday he refilled my coffee without being asked.
I was talking to Ty about the raffle setup—Ty, who is the polar opposite of Bryson in every conceivable way, all warmth and easy laughter and the kind of charm that makes you feel like you've known him your whole life—and I set my empty mug on the counter while I gestured through an idea about prize tiers.
The next time I reached for it, it was full.
Hot. Black with one sugar, which is how I take it, and I never told him that.
I never told anyone at the station that.
He either asked someone or—and this is the option that makes my stomach flip—he watched me make my coffee once and remembered.
On Thursday he positioned himself between me and the open engine bay while I was sorting raffle tickets near the edge.
It was subtle—he didn't say "move" or "be careful" or "you're standing near a three-ton vehicle.
" He just appeared, like a shadow with biceps, standing close enough that if I'd stepped backward I'd have walked into a wall of chest. Close enough that I could smell him—not cologne, not aftershave, just clean soap and something metallic and warm.
When I asked what he was doing, he said "draft" in a voice so flat it could level concrete, and walked away.
He hates me. That's my conclusion after a week of analysis.
He's a private man and I'm a walking exclamation point and I keep showing up in his space with baked goods and noise and he's too stoic to tell me to stop.
Except "too stoic" doesn't explain the coffee.
Or the door. Or the draft defense. Those are the actions of a man who's paying attention, and you don't pay that kind of attention to someone you want to go away.
I mention it to Bridget on Friday. She's become a station regular since she started dating Tanner—she brings muffins from Sweet on Main most mornings and perches on the counter while he pretends to work and stares at her like she hung the moon and also the stars and possibly several planets.
They're disgusting and I love them and I want what they have with a desperation that I keep carefully packaged under enthusiasm and baked goods.
Right now she's on her usual spot, peeling the wrapper off a lemon poppy seed, and I'm standing next to her with a box of raffle tickets and a crisis.
"I think the grumpy one hates me."
Bridget laughs so hard she chokes on her muffin. She actually coughs, holds up a finger, takes a drink of water, composes herself, and says, "Bree. Honey. That man does not hate you."
"He won't talk to me. He won't look at me. He held a door for thirty seconds without making eye contact. That's not flirting. That's a hostage negotiation."
"He held a door for thirty seconds." She says it back to me slowly, like I should be hearing something I'm not.
"Bryson Holloway—the man who communicates primarily in grunts and wrench noises—stood and held a door for half a minute.
For you. The man eats a full meal in four minutes.
He doesn't spend thirty seconds on anything that isn't a diesel engine. "
"Because he's polite."
"He's not polite. He's efficient. Everything in minimum required time." She leans forward, muffin forgotten. "He held a door for you for thirty seconds because he wanted thirty more seconds of you walking past him. Think about that."
I think about it. I think about it while I sort raffle tickets and while I drive home and while I lie in bed staring at my ceiling fan, which is wobbling slightly and probably needs to be fixed by someone who understands mechanical things—someone large and quiet, hypothetically, who refills coffee without being asked and invents drafts to stand close to me.
I pick out my outfit for Thursday's meeting more carefully than usual.
Soft blue sweater that does nice things for my chest and my eyes.
Jeans that actually fit instead of the baggy ones I default to because they don't draw attention.
I curl my hair, which I never do for a community fundraiser meeting, and I tell myself it doesn't mean anything while I spend twenty minutes on eyeliner.
It means something. I'm just not ready to name it yet.