She sighs and lays her head back against my chest. “It’s hard, though. Why would he leave if he loved me?”
“I can’t answer that. But I think… it was more about him than it ever was you.”
“You think so?”
“I really do.”
She shrugs noncommittally before shrugging out of my embrace and standing. “Everything’s the exact same,” she murmurs, “and yet totally different.”
I rise and follow behind her as she walks over to a jaw-dropping 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. The beast of a ride caught my eye the minute the lights came on, but it wasn’t the time.
She approaches it as if it’s a wild animal, cautious but curious. She circles it before trailing her fingers reverently over the trim.
“When did he get her?” I ask, tipping my chin toward the partially restored masterpiece.
“He’s had her for a while. Just got too sick to work on her.”
I drag my eyes over the fine lines of the body, loving every bit of it. She needs work, but she’s still a damn fine ride. “Damn.”
She shrugs as her gaze hones in on mine. Judging from the fierce look, she’s done reminiscing and ready to get down to business. “Why are we here?”
If she’s ready to do this, so am I. “We’re here because you need to figure out what you want to do with this place.”
Ignoring me, or maybe contemplating my words, Seraphine walks along the edges of the garage, taking in every inch of space.
She stops by every stall, every workstation, until she ends her circuit on the opposite side of the ‘Cuda from where she started. A frown mars her pretty features. “I don’t know, Mateo.”
Now’s the time to go for broke. Please let her have an open mind. “Sell it to me,” I say, leveling her with a pleading look over the hood of the ‘Cuda.
“Sell what?”
“All of this.” I throw my arms out wide. “The shop, the tools, the unfinished projects.”
She shakes her head, her previously down-turned lips now twisted up in a snarl. “No! No way. This is my dad’s legacy.”
I scoff in disbelief as I look around the space. “If you ignore it any longer, you’ll make a mockery of all his hard work, of his reputation, of his legacy.”
Seraphine lunges for me over the hood of the car, her palm splayed wide, itching to make contact with my cheek.
“Do not,” I growl, catching her wrist before she can connect. “Ever try to hit me.”
Tensions run high as she tries to free herself from my grip, but I tug her closer, causing her to lean fully over the hood. The position puts her luscious cleavage on display; it’s a fight to keep my eyes on hers, but now is not the time to check her out.
“Or what?” Her eyes harden as she glares at me, a defiant tilt to her chin. Seraphine wants her words to have bite, but right now, she is all bark.
“Estás muy malcriada,” I mutter under my breath, which only serves to anger the little spitfire more.
“Excuse me? What did you just say?”
“I said you’re acting spoiled.” I drag my eyes over her as she tugs against my hold. “Like a child who did not get her way.” I release her wrist and round the hood of the car.
“I’m a grown-ass woman!” Seraphine fires back, all but stomping her foot.
“Then act like it!” I roar, advancing her until her back is pressed into the side of the car.
As I stare down at this fragile, broken girl, a grotesque mix of pity and hunger gnaws at me. Of the two, pity is safer; it is the only one I am willing to give any time to, because the hunger is a can of worms I have no intention of opening—ever.
“You claim you’re grown; you claim you want to honor your father’s legacy. You lie. You’re nothing but a scared, sad child, determined to run all you love into the ground.”
She sniffles, and my heart pinches. “I don’t want to be…”
Her soft, broken words turn the pinch into a pull. The kind of pull that leads experienced sailors to the depths, to their deaths. The kind of pull that inspires sonnets and songs and movies. The kind of pull I’m helpless to resist.
I skim the back of my hand over her tear-dampened cheek, wiping away the physical evidence of her sorrow. “Then don’t be, mariposita.”
She blinks her big brown eyes up at me. “H-how? How can I not be? I know you’re right. I’m ruining everything.”
The urge to trade my jeans and T-shirt for armor is strong as I pull her into a hug. “Let me help you. Let me buy this from you; I’m sure you could use the cash. I’ll keep your dad’s legacy intact.” I step back from her, looking down to gauge her reaction.
While her eyes are still watery, there’s a determined furrow in her brow. “On one condition,” she says, her tone daring me to deny her.
“What’s that?”
“Hire me.”
Chapter Nine
Seraphine
“Just go inside,” I mutter to myself as I pace back and forth on the sidewalk, passing the salon by for the fourth time. “They know you’re coming, woman up and go in!”
Even after my paltry pep-talk, I’m no closer to actually going in. “Why is this so hard?”
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, and my skin feels too tight. The mere thought of facing the women I’ve called my best friends—my only friends—for years has me ready to run home and never leave the safety of my bed ever again.
My stomach churns and my heart races as I finally gather the courage to approach the door. I reach for the handle—I can do this. Except before I can make contact, the salon door flies open and I yank my hand away, cradling it to my chest as though I touched a flame.
“Are you going to come in or keep pacing?” Azalea asks bluntly, morphing my anxiety to humiliation.
I shake my head and take a step back. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but my voice comes out mostly steady. “This was a bad idea.”
Azalea cocks her head to the side and steps fully out of the salon, allowing the door to close behind her. “Seraphine, what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, meaning it in more ways than one. “I’m just gonna—”
“Come inside and spill your guts?” Azalea links her arm with mine and escorts me into the salon. “Perfect idea!”
I slap a smile on my face and hope it looks more natural than it feels.
“Lookie who I found,” Azalea announces as we step onto the cutting floor.
“Hey, stranger!” Myla Rose sets her comb and shears down and rushes over to hug me. I study her when she pulls away; her eyes and smile are both wide and honest—she’s truly happy to see me.
This little kernel of knowledge loosens the knot in my chest a little.
“Hey, Myles.” I keep my voice soft. I feel like an outsider in a salon I worked in for years, and while I know it’s my doing, I don’t like the way I feel like a visitor in such a familiar place, especially one that once was an escape from all that was happening with Dad over the years. But now, in the wake of his death, it almost feels tarnished.