Page 15 of Tell Me No Lies

I roll my eyes at the mention of his name, more out of habit than anything. “I’m fine. And it’s none of Tate’s business what I do outside of working hours.”

My front desk partner gives me the mom look, but I’m prepared to hold my ground. Except, instead of fighting with me, Nancy glances out into the lot, the set of her mouth softening before she turns back my way. “Fine.” She gives me a little grin. “Have a good night.”

I’m still standing there when the door closes behind her. That was easy. Way easier than I expected it to be. Maybe a little too easy.

I probably shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but Nancy's not usually that chill. She's kinda like me. She holds her ground and digs in her heels even when the water starts to rise.

Then again, maybe she just really wants to get the fuck home. Maybe she's ready to curl up on her couch with a glass of red to watch the newest episode of Ninety-day Fiancé.

I hustle back to the front desk, because the more I think about it, the more Nancy's plan sounds like a good one. I scan my workspace, looking for the pile containing a handful of the keychains I've collected over the years, including the miniature wrench I bought when Tate offered me a job here. I wish I could say I think of this place when I see it, but the stupid thing only reminds me of him.

I growl in frustration—both at my lack of keys and my inability to brush off my feelings for Tate. “Why can’t you just keep it together?” I run my hands along all the shelves, digging deep in case they got shoved to the back.

Unfortunately, they’re not anywhere on or in the counter. I drop down to my hands and knees, crawling around to see if they got knocked off and fell underneath the computer stations, but there's still no sign of them. Pushing up from the floor, I wince a little at the twinge in my formerly broken ankle as I look around, trying to think of where else they might be.

My stomach drops my toes.

What if I flipping locked them in the car?

"Fuck." I stalk back down the hall. I don't bother hiding my limp as I go. There's no reason to hide my weakness when no one’s here to see it.

I reach the exit and stop before opening the door, realizing I might be double fucked. My work keys are also on the same keychain and the door locks automatically when it shuts.

"Ugh." My forehead falls to the glass and I suck in a deep breath. Never in my life has a man had me so turned around.

Actually, that's not true. There was one man who royally fucked with my head—and my life—but this is different. Very different.

And I will handle this too. I’m not a fucking shrinking violet. I control my life. My thoughts.

My feelings.

I take another deep breath before stepping out into the lot, holding the door open as I look around for something to wedge into it so it doesn't lock behind me. In the process of looking for that item, I notice something else is missing. Something way more concerning than my keys.

Where the fuck is my car?

I’m staring at the spot I know I parked it in this morning, jaw hanging open, confused about where in the hell an entire used sedan could have disappeared to, when Tate comes walking out of the closest work bay. He's got a rag in his hands and flashes me a dimpled smile. "Are you coming?"

I look back into the shop. Then at the spot where I am positive I parked. "Where's my car?"

Tate tips his head at the open door. "I've got it on the lift." He slowly comes my way, each step unhurried, but I swear I feel every one of them like a heartbeat under my skin. "Last night I noticed the sticker in your window said you were overdue for an oil change, so I figured I’d teach you how to change your own oil too."

This is a fucking nightmare.

I can handle him being a dick. Mostly.

I can handle all the smartass and sarcastic comments. Usually.

But this? Showing me how to take care of myself like it’s nothing? This is—

Some bullshit.

I swallow hard as he comes to a stop in front of me, thick biceps stretching his worn T-shirt. Broad chest doing the same. I can already smell his flipping cologne and my resistance will crumble if I’m not careful. "I didn't ask you to teach me how to change my oil." I'm cornered, and the first thing I do when that happens is lash out. "You can't just steal my car."

"Didn't steal your car. I pulled it into one of the bays." He swings the rag he's been wiping his hands on over one broad shoulder. "And you said you wanted to handle things on your own, so I'm helping you handle them on your own."

I don't like this. Not at all. I don't like it, because of how much I do like it. How good it feels to have somebody understand me. To not be threatened by my hyper independence.

Hell, Tate’s even encouraging it.