He ignores me. “Let her come to the shop and follow you around. You can grunt your answers from underneath a truck. You won’t even have to try to keep your eyes off her. It’ll be impossible.”
I whirl around to face him. “Ever heard of OSHA? That’s definitely a safety violation.” And fucking stupid.
“Oh, since when do you care about rules, Gray?”
That’s fair.
“I don’t know why you’re being a jerk about this,” Garret says. “So, it’ll put you out for a few minutes. Don’t be selfish.”
I run my hands through my hair and try to avoid his gaze. Garret never asks much of me. He lets me get away with ignoring company meetings and buying supplies that are better quality but higher priced than he would like. I come in late, half-ass my paperwork, and Garret never says a word.
And when I look up at him, I know he’s thinking the same damn thing.
He grins a got-ya smile, and my defiance starts to slip.
“I’m going to be real with you here,” he says. “I’m seriously worried about the future of Blake Brother Auto. With that place in Syn City closing down, we have a shot at not only saving our ass but also expanding. Expanding, Grayson. But if we don’t use this opportunity to our advantage, we might have to let Tristan go.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
We stand facing each other under the hazy halogen lights. The severity of the situation is written all over Garret’s face and, despite knowing this was an issue, I didn’t know it was this level of an issue—not a “let Tristan go” problem. This guy is like a brother to us. He needs us as much as we need him. Fuck.
I pace around the truck and back again.
“This is where we are,” Garret tells me. “Numbers don’t lie. I don’t like it either, but we have to face it.”
“But fire Tristan?” I run my hand down the side of my face and stop moving. “We can’t do that. He’s the best motorcycle mechanic that I’ve ever seen, and he needs this job, Garret. It’s everything to him. Letting him go is not an option.”
“I don’t want it to be an option, but it’s what we might be looking at if we can’t bring in more revenue. Now, there’s a pool of potential new clientele waiting on us. We just have to hook ’em and reel ’em in.”
I scowl at his mixing of fishing and work phrases.
“You can’t expect some miracle out of Haley,” I point out. “Maybe she gussies up your website and makes some fliers or whatever. But that’s no guarantee. We have to think of something else.”
“I have been thinking. It’s all I do.”
“Glad to know you do something all day.”
We exchange a grin because we both know I’m kidding. Garret works as hard as Grant and me—just differently. But, hey, we all can’t be brains and brawn.
Garret slaps me on the back as he walks by. “I gotta get home. But you need to walk in there and take Haley up on that offer, or it’s gonna be your ass who fires Tristan if it comes to it.”
“Bull-fucking-shit.”
“Then don’t let it come to that.”
I turn back to my truck and yank open the driver’s side door. The seat squeaks as I climb in.
I start the engine, revving it just enough to feel the vibration in my blood. But instead of pulling out, I pause.
My sight roams around the mostly empty parking lot until it lands on Haley’s little maroon Mazda.
The corners of my lips twitch.
My lord, that woman just does something to me. Anytime I’m in hollering distance of her, I feel myself being pulled her way. Just being near her causes a shock to my system; it makes me feel alive. It’s a high I can’t get from anything else—not fixing an impossible job, finishing a dangerous hike, or sleeping with a woman I met a few minutes prior.
I should know. I’ve tried all three.
None of it compares to breathing the same air as Haley Morgan.
And that’s all kinds of fucked up.
I don’t get it. I don’t understand how it works. I only know that staying away from her doesn’t help—it only worsens the itch. An itch that she has no fucking idea about. Nor ever will.
I rest my forearms on top of the steering wheel and sigh.
If I were a relationship guy, I’d snatch Haley Morgan up quicker than you could say mine. And if I were a complete heathen, I’d have her beneath me even faster.
But I’m not either—a forever kind of dude, nor am I an utter hedonist.
So, I’m fucked. Plain and simple.
I see her every day except the days she doesn’t work at Fireside. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings—the days she’s not on the calendar—I hike in the Wild Ridge Mountains to keep myself busy. The other nights, I pretend to love hockey or baseball or what-the fuck-ever is on the television at the bar and sit for as long as I can pull it off without looking like a creep. And she has no clue that I’m only there to be near her.
She’s forbidden, but as long as I don’t touch …
“I can’t play this little question-and-answer game with you, Haley,” I say, taking in every detail of her car as if it was her. “I can’t trust me not to grab you and fuck the shit right out of you.”
As if on cue, I hear her mischievous giggle echo through my ears.
I grin. “You’d like it, though. I just can’t do that to you.”
A handful of patrons trickle out of the bar. They pause on the sidewalk as a matte-black Harley roars into the parking lot. Tristan parks near the front door and climbs off his bike.
My heart sinks.
He slips off his helmet and runs a free hand through his hair, catching sight of me in the process. His face lights up as he smiles and motions for me to join him for a drink. I wave him off. I can’t possibly sit in there and knock back a cold one knowing that his employment is in my hands.
Fuck.
Guilt washes over me as Tristan disappears inside Fireside—and I don’t guilt easily. But he’s such a good guy—the best, really. The idea of having to let him go because we, as a Blake Brother cooperative, can’t figure out how to keep him around really eats at me.
“Then don’t let it come to that.”
Garret’s words ring through my brain, amplifying the tightness in my chest.
I take my hand off the gear shift. I look at Haley’s car and then back to the front door of the bar. As much as I want to go back inside—or, better yet, because of it—I don’t.
I hit the gas and speed out of the parking lot.
Three
Haley
“I can’t believe you got me to do this,” Kaylee Richards says, huffing and puffing beside me. Her face is beet red from the slight incline of Bride Street. “I don’t do physical activity.”
“It’s good for you,” I tell her, squinting into the morning sun. “It helps release stress and creates … some good vibes in your brain.” I laugh. “I’m a bartender and romance writer, not a doctor.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure my doctor told me to get some fresh air at my last appointment, anyway.”