I’m still seething from my run-in with Reid. Reid freaking Riggins and his stupidly hot body. I can’t stop seeing the way he looked with the sunlight highlighting every single line of his chiseled torso. The way his dirty hands left smeared fingerprints down his chest and abs was distracting, to say the least. All I have to do to push that image from my head is to remind myself what an asshole he is.

He was never exactly Mr. Social, even when he and Tara were dating and later married. He seems happiest tucked underneath a car, covered in grease and grime. I may have briefly had a crush on him when he moved here to live with his grandpa during high school. The rumor was that his mother passed away from complications giving birth to his little brother, and then later their father died from heart disease. We were sophomores and he was the new, mysterious senior with the sinfully hot body and a face like he just hopped out of a GQ magazine. My fascination with him faded pretty much as soon as I got to know him, though.

Reid Riggins has, and always will be arrogant, selfish, and abrasive. He’s not my type in the slightest. To be honest, the fact that this house is next door to his was the only thing holding me back from buying it. The price was ridiculously good because it’s been on the market for so long and needs fixing up. I needed a new place and the price was right. Tara started dating Reid’s brother, a fact which I almost let slip to Reid earlier. She talked me into letting him stay with her every once in awhile, which pretty quickly turned into all day, every day.

Needless to say, I wanted space. I may still be in the same small town I’ve always lived in, but it is time to for a fresh start. The bakery has been doing well lately, so I can afford the luxury of a little privacy and a bigger place for me and my cat, Charles.

I huff out a long, exhausted sigh and plop down on the couch, which is in the middle of the hallway right now. I hear a loud bang from outside and wince as the movers continue their apparent mission to ding, dent, or scratch every last thing I own before it comes inside the house. It may not be much, but I work hard for everything I own. Charles watches the chaos from the top of the refrigerator with a look of disinterest. I know better though, he’s loving this. I’ll be up all night from the sounds of Charles rampaging around his new domain. He just acts like an old grump by day. Just like he didn’t care when I spent a hundred dollars to buy him a six-foot-tall cat tower off Amazon. He used that tower one time. One time. And all he used it for was to pee on. At least that’s what he wanted me to think. A few weeks after I got it, I caught him in the middle of the night having the time of his life playing on it.

Sometimes I wonder why I wanted a cat.

Just like I wonder why I try so hard to be independent. If my parents had their way, I would sit back while they funnel an endless stream of money into my bank account. They were both trust fund kids. Their parents arranged their marriage, and they dutifully followed through with it. In their social circle, working for a living is something to be embarrassed about. When I made it clear that I didn’t want to take their handouts, they distanced themselves. A lot. We talk over the phone sometimes, but they have no idea what I’m really doing. I’ve spun a few convenient mistruths just to get them to keep their distance. If they knew the full truth, they would start having airplanes drop money on my house until I gave in and took some.

At least they still have Vanessa to dote over. She’s the perfect daughter. She never minded being given all the money in the world for doing nothing. She’s currently engaged to Edmond Bartley, who was my father’s top pick for me. When it became clear I wasn’t going to agree to what was basically an arranged marriage, he did the only logical thing left to do, he set Edmond up with Vanessa. She spends her days lounging poolside, sipping drinks, attending social events, and planning her obscenely expensive wedding. Which I still haven’t been invited to. Then again, she has been planning the wedding for over a year already, so she may not even have an official date.

Not for the first time, I try to push past the bitterness that rises in my chest when I think about my family. Most families would be proud if their daughter found the amount of success I have. Mine acts like I joined a three ring circus to fulfill a life-long dream of becoming a clown. Screw them though. I’ve made it this far without them, and I’ll keep going on whether they like it or not. All I need is my bakery. And Charles, I guess.

Except there’s no point lying to myself. More than anything, I want a guy. I may not need a guy. But it sure would be nice to have someone around who could make me feel safe and maybe even help shoulder some of the responsibility once in awhile. Even more than a guy, I want a baby. I’m turning thirty-one next month, and my biological clock is ticking like a time bomb. Every time I see babies at the store I feel like my heart is breaking. I can’t help running through the numbers. At thirty-one, I’ll almost be in my fifties by the time my child graduates high school. A few more years and I’ll be fifty before they even start high school. A couple dozen more and I’ll be pushing their stroller with my motorized old lady scooter.

Yeah. I never said my biological clock was reasonable.

It doesn’t help that my love life is a long list of trainwrecks, disasters, and catastrophes. I went through a few phases. Early on, there was the safe stage, where I dated guys I thought my parents would approve of. Then I moved on to the defiant stage, where I dated guys I knew my parents would hate. That lasted a while until at some point I realized I was only hurting myself.

I have never gotten involved with someone that wasn’t in some way related to how I thought my parents would feel, as pathetic and sad as that is. The answer seems simple enough--date someone for me--but after so long, I don’t know what I even want in a guy. I’ve tried dating guys from town and using dating sites to meet guys from the city. I have nothing to show for it, except a few memories I would rather not revisit, ever. Like the time a guy told me he was into “golden showers” on our first date. I thought he was speaking literally, like shower faucets made out of gold. When I looked it up on my phone in the bathroom, I ended up having to escape through the window to avoid going back out there with Mr. Waterworks.

The unifying flaw in all of my relationships is my parents’ money. When guys inevitably find out about my parents’ fortune, they start pushing me to take advantage of it. Whether they want me to beg them for a vacation, a gift, or for just plain old money. That, or they feel threatened by it and distance themselves.

I blow out a long sigh. I can’t even complain to anyone about it. Who’s going to feel sympathy for me? Poor Sandra and her access to ridiculous amounts of money! How hard her life must be! Yeah, it’s not exactly going to bring people to tears, so I just bottle it up, keep my head down, and keep working hard enough to forget.

I decide all my fussing at the movers isn’t actually saving my furniture anyway, so I head outside and get in my car. I’ll run down to the bakery and get a batch of dough proofing for our signature cheese crusted pretzel twists. I was going to do it in the morning, but if I do it now, I’ll have more time to decorate the pastries afterwards.

I start my beat up Camry, wincing. It has been making a sound like a chain smoker’s cough when I turn the key lately. Now every time I go to start it up I cross my fingers that it won’t be the time the old girl finally gives out on me.The engine huffs, wheezes, and grinds.The car starts to shake slightly and then there’s a loud bang.

Smoke hisses out from under the hood.

“Shit!” I yell, slamming my hands down on the steering wheel. I knew I should have brought it in sooner, but Reid is the only mechanic in our small town, and ever since he and Tara divorced, he treats me like the enemy. Even before his neighborly threat, I was dreading having to deal with him.

I glance over toward his shop. I see him standing there, shirtless, rubbing some car part with a greasy red rag. He’s watching the smoke billow from my car. It’s too far to be sure, but I think he’s smirking.

“Cocky bastard,” I mutter. I get out of the car and walk inside, vowing not to ask him to fix it. He thinks I need him. Well he can learn the same lesson my parents did. I don’t need anybody. Besides, I have a few hours to figure out how to fix this thing. I’ll just spend some time on YouTube looking up the problem.

Four hours, two cups of coffee, and twenty incomprehensible videos later, I step outside. It’s past ten. The lights are off in Reid’s shop, but I can see a single light on in his house. I just have to hope it’s dark enough that he can’t see me out here. Worst case scenario, I’ll call for a tow truck and have it taken to the city to someone else.

I bring the little toolkit outside with me that I got when I moved out on my own. I honestly don’t know a whole hell of a lot about tools beyond which one is the hammer and which one is the screwdriver, but how hard can it be?

My hours of research taught me that it’s either a problem I have no chance of fixing, or it’s just a few loose screws. As soon as I actually open the hood and take a look, I realize I’m in over my head. My engine doesn’t look quite like the ones I saw in the videos, and there’s a plastic cover over half of it. I sigh, blowing a hair out of my face and using my phone as a flashlight.

After about five minutes of poking around, I realize I have no chance in hell of doing this myself. I can’t even unscrew the bolts holding the plastic cover in place because none of my tools fit them. I slam the hood down in frustration and then jump away from the dark figure standing beside my car. I do a very embarrassing impression of a t-rex as I scream at the top of my lungs and my arms pull up by my sides.

It’s Reid.

“What the hell?” I yell.

He steps forward so I can see his obnoxiously handsome face. “I was just wondering how long it would take you to figure out you can’t fix that on your own. I heard it from my garage.” He moves to my hood and opens it without asking for permission.

“Get your filthy hands off my hood.”

He grins up at me, the look on his face making me feel like I just said the dirtiest thing in the world.

My cheeks burn and I frown, folding my arms I watch as his muscles cord and flex while he pokes and prods at my engine with his strong hands. He flips something that pops and yanks the plastic cover out effortlessly. I catch myself imagining what hands like that would feel like on my body. I stop that line of thinking fast. Reid is a total asshole. I don’t care how good he looks or what those hands would feel like on me, because I’m never going to find out. He’s not my type and he’s the last thing I need complicating my life right now. Besides, if Tara ever found out, she would never forgive me.

“Yeah. It’s fucked,” he says. “I’ll have the boys pull it over to the garage in the morning. Will be about a week before she’s running again.”

“Reid, I don’t need or want your help.”

“Tough shit,” he says. “You’re my neighbor now. If your car runs like shit it makes me look bad. I’m fixing it whether you like it or not.”

“Like hell you are,” I say.

He takes a step closer until I can smell the piney scent of him, like a forest in December. I involuntarily breathe it in more deeply. My heart pounds.

“Yeah? How do you plan on stopping me?”

I swallow, words failing. All I can see are the strong lines of him. His jaw, the hint of a perfectly muscular crease between his pecs showing above the low collar of his shirt. He’s so broad and strong he could pick me up like I was a child. He could do anything he wanted to me. He could…

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing that line of thought to stop.

“I don’t need your handouts,” I say finally.

He eyes me hard. “Right. The spoiled rich girl who doesn’t think she needs handouts.”

My hand flashes out, catching him across the cheek. He barely flinches, but the sound echoes through the night. My palm stings and our eyes are locked. I almost apologize. Almost. But the anger of his assumption swallows up my sympathy. “You don’t know anything about me, Reid Riggins.” I turn to walk inside and pause, speaking over my shoulder. “And you had better not dare touch my car.”

I hear a humorless laugh from behind me and the crunch of his feet as he walks back to his house.

Asshole.