11. Hannah

Mason

S he never did like to fucking listen.

Why is it so hard? Don’t touch shit. Don’t move shit. Don’t fuck with shit.

I know where every part, piece, and sheet of damned paper is in this garage. Or at least, I fucking used to.

One thing I hate more than anything is people touching my shit. Dad’s shit. This garage has been the same since he died and it wasn’t hurting anyone the way it was.

Now, I have no idea what she’s moved. What she’s thrown out. Whether customer invoices are still there.

And now . . . they’re going to know something’s different.

“Sorry, Mr. Stevens,” I murmur, handing over the keys and the invoice to his BMW. He takes it, looking past me.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just hired some new help.”

He gives a disappointed smile, looking past me again. This time, I turn and follow his gaze to the small window in the back to where the little redhead of my fucking nightmares is sitting on the dock. The same one where Ian and I loaded parts into the other night, knees drawn up to her chest.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Well, son, you know,” Mr. Stevens starts, placing his hand on my shoulder. “My wife and I used to fight like cats and dogs, too. Then, I learned how to apologize. Once I figured that out, my marriage was perfect. Smooth sailing.”

I have half a mind to tell him marriage is not in the cards and especially not with a woman like Hannah. She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s also a fucking tornado. One that cleans and moves my shit and gets under my skin like no other.

“She’s not my wife,” I murmur, tension like steel rigid in my spine.

“Oh,” Mr. Stevens says, looking back at Hannah and shaking his head. “My condolences, then.”

Fucking prick.

I wait here while he climbs in his car and drives off, debating on what I should do. I knew this shit wouldn’t work out.

Then I turn to head back into the office and spot her, a sinking feeling fills my gut. It’s hot. Past four, and she’s been working hard. It’s just the two of us and we’re done for the day, despite the brake job I’ve been working on the last hour after I sent the guys home.

I know I should send her home, too.

I should tell her to not come back. God knows it would make my life easier. If I could convince myself Hannah Gaines is not my problem and send her back home to her mother. Let her sister rot for all the shit she’s done.

Maybe then, I could accept that Hannah’s not mine. She never has been.

But . . . even as I think it, I know it’s not fucking true and that seems to be the root of all my problems.

She came to me because she was desperate. Because she knew she could count on me. I could see the defeat in her eyes when I told her no the first time. I could feel the worry and regardless of how I feel about Melissa Gaines, I know that if it were my sister, I’d want to find her, too.

Fuck, I wouldn’t stop until I did.

“Jesus Christ.” I run a hand over my face, scrubbing away the regret from watching her tear up. So she’s upset. You know who else is upset? All those families her sister helped ruin.

I step back into the office, looking around. It’s nice. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it. People can sit down in the lobby now. I inspect the counter and find everything laid out and labeled. It looks a hell of a lot better than anything I could have done. Dad’s magazines are neatly arranged in the rack. The old fake plant Mom brought when I was only twelve has been dusted and the bathroom has been cleaned for the first time in years. Maybe ever.

Something about how clean everything looks pisses me off. Who does she think she is? She can’t just show up and fuck up the one thing that’s kept me going. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the dirt or maybe it’s because I can’t be mad at her, even if I try to be.

I’ve done everything in my power to get her to quit at this point, but she just rolls with the punches. Her being here is dangerous and if they find out about her, that’ll be me signing my own death warrant.

I don’t need these problems. She doesn’t need these problems.

So, why then, do I feel like I got kicked in the dick when I walk out back and see her crying?

Fuck me.

God, if you’re trying to punish me, just take me out. I’ll deal with whatever the hell you’ve got down there over this, any day.

My boot scratches along the old concrete on the dock and Hannah jumps, hastily turning the other direction and wiping her eyes. As if I couldn’t see her crying.

As if I didn’t feel shitty enough.

“Sorry, just needed a minute,” she mumbles. “The fumes were too much.”

“They’re pretty strong,” I agree, swallowing over the lump in my chest. “Look, maybe I was a little harsh.”

She chuckles dryly, shaking her head and staring out at the backyard. It’s full of old tires. Parts. A broken car or two. Nothing that should interest her, but she’d rather look at it than me.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. Not anymore. She had trouble with that before and I didn’t get it back then. Now, I understand and it pisses me off, even if it shouldn’t.

“A little?”

I deserved that.

“Okay,” I concede. It occurs to me, then, that I am absolute shit at apologies. Maybe I should have asked Mr. Stevens for some tips. Three little sisters, yet, I can’t look at a girl crying without feeling like the world’s biggest piece of shit. “You’re going to have to show me where everything is. I’m not used to it being organized.”

She shakes her head.

“I should go, Mason,” she says softly, gaze bright with unshed tears.

She moves to stand, but a strange bolt of panic pinches me in the chest and forces me to drop to my haunches next to her.

This is what I wanted, right? Her to quit?

But, when I think about her disappearing again, something dark inside me growls. Low and menacing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I don’t know what she’s got going on. I’ve got my own shit to deal with and I don’t want her to be a part of it.

She doesn’t belong in my world, any more than I ever belonged in hers.

I still don’t want her to leave, though . . .

“What about Melissa?”

She finally turns those pretty eyes on me and in the glint of the evening sun . . . fuck.

“Mason, have you even tried to find anything out?” Not exactly. I’ve been dealing with the fucking head trip that comes with having her around. “I didn’t think so,” she says quietly after a moment.

“I need your help.”

“It’s not working out. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

The rational part of me knows her quitting is for the best. The other half—the half that has never been rational when it comes to Hannah Gaines—snarls at the thought of her walking out of the garage and out of my life.

Again.

“Bummer,” I murmur and she looks away. Suddenly, my mission is to get her to look at me again. “I’m finishing a brake job and can’t fit under the car.”

“Bull,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes.

“I’m serious.” I stand, jabbing a thumb back at the garage. “I need someone small enough to fit under there.”

“You have other workers.”

“Not right now.”

She regards me for a moment and I think she’s going to say no. Hell, I wouldn’t blame her. She knows I have a lift. I don’t need someone smaller than me.

“Fine. But I’m not finishing the mopping until tomorrow. It’ll probably need it again, anyway.”

I hold out my hand to her and she stares at my fingers as if they might bite her.

Finally, her palm slips into mine and I haul her off the dock, forcing myself to take a step back from her when she’s on her feet. I force myself to ignore the dull ache in my chest and I force my eyes not to follow the sway of her hips when we walk back into the shop.

Fuck, I force myself not to breathe because the scent of her perfume has been burned into my brain for the last week.

Yeah, Hannah Gaines is going to be a real fucking problem.

I’m a fucking idiot.

That much is evident when Hannah’s on her hands and knees in front of me, head under the car, and that glorious ass in the air.

“I can’t reach,” she grumbles under her breath, rolling over so her back is on the creeper.

Thank fuck.

Asking her to stay and help was a mistake. It’s hard enough to ignore her presence when she’s under my roof. It’s a completely different animal when she’s right under my goddamned nose.

I don’t need the help. She knows it. I could’ve just as easily put the car up on a lift or dealt with it tomorrow, but something in me didn’t like that idea.

Not nearly as much as having her in my fucking space.

“So, what? You just run your mother’s charity and that’s it?”

Hannah’s quiet under the car, taking the wrench when I hand it to her. I could raise the car up for her a bit. I mean the jack’s right there, but watching her work like this is better. Keeps me from getting too close to her. Keeps her and that pretty smile under the car.

That is, if she still smiled at me.

“Hey, it’s busier than you think . . . sometimes.”

“I’m surprised she let you leave the house.”

She shrugs. “She doesn’t have much choice now. I’m twenty-three.”

Fuck, where has the time gone? I’m going to be thirty this year and yet, I feel like I’ve barely got shit figured out. I can pay my bills. I can buy groceries. Taxes? Retirement? No fucking idea.

“Can I be honest?”

“Aren’t you always?”

She ignores me, letting out a deep breath.

“I lied to her to come here. She thinks I’m in Africa, helping build a school. Does that . . . make me a bad person?”

“A bad person? No.”

She rolls out enough to stare at me. “I didn’t come back here for you , if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I wasn’t aware I was insinuating anything,” I murmur, though there’s a bitter edge to my voice I fucking despise.

She’s silent for a moment, probably chewing on her words. I can see it by the way she bites her bottom lip; I’ve gotten under her skin.

Not that I’ve paid attention enough to notice those quirks.

“What about Michael?”

Even at this angle, I can see her spine stiffen.

“What about him?”

“Seemed like he was cozying up pretty well when I was around.”

“I am not going there with you.” I can see her cheeks flame and while I chuckle under my breath, something dark inside me stirs.

“So, I shouldn’t expect a wedding invitation?”

She hands me the wrench back and I hand her the next size down. Not that I already knew what she’d need, or anything. Call it a lucky guess, fueled by me already finishing the other side before I asked for her help.

“Michael and I are friends,” she declares to the undercarriage of the car. “Nothing more. If he wants that, then that’s his business, but it doesn’t mean I have to be accepting.”

“Your mother sure liked him.”

“Then she can marry him.”

“So, it has been a topic of conversation.”

“Why are you pushing me?” she snaps.

“I’m not pushing. You volunteered that information yourself. I merely made an observation.”

Right now, it’s like we’re kids, again. She’s only twenty-three. So fucking innocent and na?ve, she’d blush at anything I’d say to her. Those pretty fucking eyes would still sparkle when she’d look at me—me, of all fucking people—and I actually had the gall to think that maybe I could keep her if I tried hard enough.

She scoffs, sliding out from under the car and standing off the creeper.

“You’re still an asshole.”

“And you’re still a brat.”

I grab the wheel, securing it back in place and she watches as I run the lug nuts in with an impact.

“You want to try?”

Hesitantly, she holds out her hands and I give her the impact, resigning myself to the fact that I like seeing her delicate hands covered in grease.

I motion for her to kneel on the ground beside me and take her hands in mine—big mistake—aligning the tool with the lug nut and pressing in.

“Press the button,” I murmur, voice gruffer than usual. She notices because her tongue darts out to lick her lips and my cock presses against my jeans.

She does and we drive the lug nut in place together. Except when it’s done, neither of us moves.

She’s too fucking close. I can smell her. Feel the heat off her skin. I can see the little gold flecks in her eyes, despite how tired she looks.

I don’t know this girl. Not who she is now. This Hannah is broken. Scared of something. She’s running from a past I was thoroughly removed from.

Fuck . . . it would be so easy to lose myself in her for a couple hours. Remind her why we fit so well back then. Forget about the outside world and the bullshit with the cartel. Reclaim what would have been mine.

But—

“I’m . . . uh . . .” her cheeks flame and that moment passes.

She clears her throat, her gaze going to anything but me.

It pisses me off.

I want her gaze. I want her touch. I want her to leave so we can put this shit behind us. Forget each other again, if that’s what it takes.

Even though I’ve never fucking forgotten her.

I turn back to the wheel, breaking the eye contact that fucking seared something into my chest, like a damned branding iron. “Go home, Hannah.”

She doesn’t say anything and time seems to stand still for a moment while she processes my request.

Then, finally, she quietly rises to her feet.

There’s no use delving into the past. What’s done is done and apologizing for it now, a couple years later, doesn’t mean a damned thing. I was just an idiot kid pretending to be a man who thought he was falling for a girl when in reality, I didn’t know shit.

Love’s a made-up construct for two people to justify the worst parts of their relationship. All the reasons why they shouldn’t be together look a whole hell of a lot better when you say, oh, but we’re in love .

Fuck that.

Love . . . the biggest corporate scam there is.

“Goodnight, Mason.”

I listen to the quiet sounds of her footsteps echoing on the concrete as she retreats and then moments later, the garage door closes and I’m alone in the aftermath of what happens when I let Hannah Gaines get close again.

“Goodnight, Hannah.”