“This is so weird,” she says when I lock her door behind us. “I am trying to roll with this situation, but if I think about it too hard, I’m pretty sure I will flip out,” she says as we walk down the stairs.
I put my hand lightly on her back. I shouldn’t touch her—not after last night—but her body’s irresistible. I want to have my hands all over her, all the time. “I’m amazed you haven’t, Flowers.” I rub my forehead. “You’ve shot straight to the top of my list.” I stop myself because I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying. Only that it’s true. She is way at the top of my list. Of everything.
“What list?” she asks. Because, yeah, that was a weird thing to say.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
She slides me a sidelong glance, curiosity brewing under those thick, curled lashes.
It hits me then: she likes me. That’s why she kissed me. It’s the reason she hasn’t freaked out about me marauding her life. Invading her space. I mean, I knew there was mutual attraction. Off-the-charts chemistry. But I see something else now. It’s the good old-fashioned girl-likes-boy current running from her to me. A desire that’s more than sexual.
And fuck if it doesn’t make me almost want to laugh.
Not at her. Definitely not. No, it just lifts so much weight off my chest, I could soar.
I thread my fingers through hers. She may be pissed at me, but she still likes me. I’ll earn back the right to touch her.
When she doesn’t shake me off, I revel in the small victory. I walk her to the van and open the passenger side door for her.
The van sputters, taking four times to start. Fuck. This needs to get fixed. Today.
Chapter Nineteen
Hannah
I definitely didn’t expect Armando to let me go to work. I thought we were going to have another throw-down that I would lose. And I also didn’t guess he would come with me.
It’s weird and wrong that I’m semi-excited by the idea. Like my boyfriend is coming to hang out at work with me.
I keep reminding myself I’m his prisoner not his date, but then he holds my hand and opens my door, which sends my body into a riot of flutters and thrills.
I wasn’t totally paying attention to the route he took, but when he turns into a car repair shop, I sit up straighter.
“What are we doing?”
“Getting a new alternator in this thing. Come on.”
I grab my purse, open the door and hop out, noting he’s not snarling orders at me not to move any more. Trust is growing.
“I don’t have money for an alternator,” I tell him when I walk around. I figure he already knows, but it’s best to be clear.
“I got you covered,” he says.
“I can’t let you do that,” I say.
His face morphs to one of an authoritarian. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you that the van isn’t safe or reliable. So, I’m fixing it. This isn’t open for discussion.”
It shouldn’t be swoon-worthy, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes my nipples go hard. It’s a flash of the old Armando—the slick, smooth-talking guy who used to come into the shop when Mary Alice owned it and flash huge wads of cash. It’s that confidence and ease, a bit of swagger. Like money is no problem, and he’s happy to provide. Definitely sexy to me.
He talks to a mechanic, telling him what he thinks is wrong with the van, and then we step inside to fill out paperwork. He has them fill it out in my name but gives his phone number and name as the contact then asks for a shuttle ride to the shop.
It’s not that hard, but I’ve been overwhelmed by the idea of even bringing the van anywhere since the problems started. Mostly because I knew I couldn’t afford any repairs. But also because I was afraid they’d take one look at me—a young Black woman who knows nothing about cars—and try to screw me over.
Nobody would ever try to screw Armando over. At least not anyone in his right mind.
He’s silent on the ride to the shop, sitting beside me but actually somewhere far away.
I nudge his leg with mine. “Thanks.”
