Page 73 of Almost Enough

“You don’t need to be out here in this heat,” he says. “Go sit in the truck. I’ll get your car hooked up.”

I hesitate for a moment, wanting to stay and offer some help, but the heat is suffocating, and my skin is slick with it. I nod, wordlessly following his instructions.

Beau follows closely behind as I make my way to the truck. A cold blast of air hits me as soon as I climb inside, and I almost moan in relief as I settle back against the leather seat.

The reprieve is short-lived, because then I look at the side mirror. Beau’s shirt rides up slightly as he bends over the engine of my car, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his jeans. His biceps flex as he reaches beneath the hood, muscles rippling.

I shift uncomfortably, pressing my thighs together. The way his hands move—confident, sure, knowing exactly what they’re doing—sends my mind straight back to that night. Those same hands on my body, possessive and gentle all at once.

He stretches to reach something deep inside the engine, sweat darkening his shirt and outlining every ridge of muscle, a single bead sliding down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar. I find myself following its path, imagining how his skin would taste there.

I’m still mad at him. Furious, actually. Unfortunately, my anger isn’t strong enough to compete with a man fixing an engine in a sweat-damp T-shirt who came running the second I needed him.

Rude.

He eventually moves to the tow truck controls, the sun catching on the sheen of sweat across his forearms, highlighting the veins that run across corded muscle. Even angry at him, even hurt, I can’t deny the effect he has on me.

I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes for a second. This is ridiculous. I’m sitting here getting hot and bothered watching a man attach my broken car to a tow truck. A man who made it very clear I wasn’t worth pursuing.

I force myself to stare straight ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the dashboard. Anything to keep my eyes off him.

The driver’s side door finally opens, and Beau slides in. The cab suddenly feels too small, like all the oxygen’s been sucked out. He smells like sunshine and sweat and motor oil, and I want to jump his bones.

“Your radiator’s shot,” he says.

“Oh.” I swallow, fixing my gaze out the window. “Is that…expensive to fix?”

He shifts the truck into gear. “Depends. I’ll take a closer look at the shop.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we’re not saying.

“So…do I at least get a sticker or something for not panicking back there?” I joke, glancing over at him while trying to bring some lightness into the cab. “You know, like one of those I survived my car breaking down participation trophies?”

Beau’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”

My smile falters. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Be around you.”

My heart drops.

“I’m a fuckup, Whitley.” His voice is low, rough. “And I hurt you.”

I sit in stunned silence. This isn’t some flippant comment or offhand apology. This is him handing me something real, something broken and beating and his.

I study his profile, the tense line of his jaw and the way his eyes stay fixed on the road.

“Yeah,” I finally say, voice softer than I intended. “You did.”

He nods once, accepting the truth without argument.

“But I’m not exactly fragile, Beau.” I turn slightly in my seat to face him better. “I don’t break that easily.”

His eyes flick to mine for just a second before returning to the road. “Doesn’t make it right.”

The truck rumbles beneath us, air conditioning humming in the background. I watch the scenery slip by, trying to organize my jumbled thoughts.