I hissed under my breath, whirling my back to them, busying myself with the mail I had piled on the pizza box.
“Just as I thought, it needs a new motor. Think I can keep it working for a while longer.”
My teeth clenched together at the sound of his voice. “Thanks,” I snapped.
I needed him to leave. To not come back again.
“Mason said the washer was toast, though,” Addy spoke like Mason was the guru of appliances.
“Did he?” I flipped through the bills, not looking back, but I could feel his gaze on me, ordering me to turn around. Demanding me.
“I can get the parts, but this model is so old, it will cost more than to replace it.”
“Great,” I said curtly, twisting around and heading for my bedroom. “I’m going to go change.”
My feet took me down the short hall, their voices following me.
“Is she a nurse?” Mason’s deep timbre muttered.
“No. She works as a dental assistant for Dr. Ramirez.”
“Oh, the office on Main Street next to the drugstore?”
I went into my bedroom, shutting the door, sure Addy replied with an affirmative.
Why did him knowing where I work feel vulnerable? As if the more he learned about me, the more of a real person I became? Not someone’s aunt or widow, but a flesh and blood person.
“Just need some young, hot man giving me a foot massage… With a glass of wine and a ‘come-to-Jesus’ kind of orgasm, which puts me right to sleep.”
Yanking my scrubs off and tossing them into the dirty basket, I quickly got into a pair of sweats and tank, trying not to notice how hard my nipples were or how sensitive my breasts and pussy were. Maybe all this was because my body needed sex. To feel alive again. Craving it so badly after this long, it was getting jumbled and confused, looking at any male with a pulse as potential. It had nothing to do with him.
Though, when I tried to put Dr. Ramirez into that spot… I felt nothing.
A tap sounded at my door before Addy sprang in, jumping on my bed, her face bright with joy.
“Can Mason stay for dinner?”
No.
“Please?”
Hell, no.
“Um. Sure. I guess,” I croaked out.
“Oh. My. God.” She gripped my arm, trying to keep her squeal quiet. “I think he likes me. I mean, he’s never gone to any of the other girl’s houses and fixed their dishwasher.”
“They probably don’t have appliances from the 1970s.”
She rolled her eyes, high on her hope, which I felt the need to bring down a little.
“Don’t read into something that might not be there.” I hated myself, but I knew in my gut she needed to not get caught in a fantasy. “As girls we tend to complicate and overanalyze things when it’s not really that way to them.”
“Why else is he here?” She motioned to the door, staging a whisper. “He is the most popular boy in our school, and every girl in the tri-state area is out for him. He wouldn’t leave the party until I did.” Because he promised me he wouldn’t. “And he’s come over the last two days to ‘fix’ something.” She did air quotes, like it signified another meaning. The first time he came, he knew you weren’t here.
I hated myself more for every counterthought that came into my head. Who was I to sway her from him? I could be the one overthinking everything, and he was here for her.
I had to find a man my age, get laid, and stop whatever was going on with me. To shut the hell up, step back, and let them be.
“Why don’t you and Mason take the pizza outside and enjoy. I’m going to watch TV in here and relax.” Drink wine. Forget everything.
“Really?” She leaped up, hugging me. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
She was doing so well here. Her grades and attitude had flipped completely. I wanted to show I trusted her, giving her the space to be a teenager.
She left my room in a gallop, calling Mason’s name.
Huffing, I crawled under my duvet, texting my sister.
Me: Being an aunt is hard.
Harper: Tell me about it. Try being a mother to a teenager. I give it zero stars. Don’t recommend.
I laughed at Harper’s text, knowing she felt the exact opposite.
Harper: She doing good?
Me: Yes.
I wanted to tell her she had a boy over now, but I couldn’t. There was something about Mason. I had this strange need to keep quiet. If Addy wanted to tell her about him, she could.
Footsteps carried down the hall, too heavy to be Addison’s, probably heading for the bathroom.
My breath fluttered, my heart pumping as they stopped.
Right in front of my door.
I didn’t move or breathe, as though he would be able to sense it if I did. I could feel him, and I knew somehow he could feel me too. Hear his heartbeat, his body heat slinking under the door, curling around me. Feel every breath he took. Time seemed to suspend. Hold its breath.
Then the footsteps started again, the bathroom door shutting.
Letting out a huge breath, I slumped over in a mix of relief, nerves, and a feeling I wouldn’t acknowledge—disappointment.
If he had opened my door and stepped in, I didn’t know how I would have responded. And it was not okay with me.
I was the grown-up, and I needed to put whatever this was to an end. Even if it was merely in my head.
He was Addison’s.
That was it.
Chapter 11
Mason
The crisp air blew into my garage, whirling together the scent of oil, gas, and Grandma’s lavender laundry detergent. I stared down at the engine I was rebuilding from scratch, my mind drifting to the house down the street, like it had all fucking afternoon.
“Dammit.” I slammed the hood down, knowing I was getting nothing accomplished, and feeling even worse because I skipped football practice again, unable to find the will to show up. I hated to be counted on. To have people depending on me when most likely I would let them down.
“Did your car do something to you, son?” My grandfather shuffled out the door, holding tight to his walker.
“No.” I dragged my hand down my face, trying to rub the frustration away. “Guess, I’m not in the mood to deal with it today.”
“Huh.” My grandfather huffed in a tone where he didn’t say anything, but he said everything.
“What?” I peered over at him. From the pictures on the shelf, Neal James was once a very good-looking man. He was in the Air Force, and when he retired, he found rebuilding old cars was a good hobby. The man fixed everything in the house, even if it was fifty years old.
“It’s still good.” He’d motion to it. “Why get new when you can fix the old?”
“Why fix the old when you can get new?” I used to tease.
“Your generation too easily throws everything away. Wasteful. Plus, the old stuff has history. A story. Just because it’s broken doesn’t mean it’s worthless.”
That was my grandpa to a T. He wasn’t the hugger like my grandma, but he showed love in the everyday things. The hours he stood next to me, explaining how to fix something, letting me do it, mess up, and try again. Never getting impatient, answering all my questions. He taught me everything I knew about restoring and repairing. Except myself.