Chapter 2

Mike’s is a car shop owned by a nice man named—you guessed it—Mike. But his son, Michael, basically runs the place, and he’s the real reason my family comes here regularly. Tom and Michael have been best friends for almost sixteen years, as long as I can remember. I have mostly good memories of growing up with him around, but I tell him that I only remember him teaming up with Tom and not letting me play video games with them.

Michael sees me from across the garage and strides toward me with his arm raised in greeting. I return the wave and gesture with my thumb at my car behind me, rolling my eyes.

He laughs. (And I suspect it’s at me.)

“Bee,” he says teasingly, trying to hug me with his grungy wife beater and greasy hands. I close my eyes and wait for it to end. I love hugs, but not from sweaty Michael. (You’d be surprised how many of them I’ve received in my life.)

Michael pats the hood of my car as two of his coworkers slide it onto solid ground. “Come on in. We’ll take care of you.”

“Thanks, Michael.”

He nudges me into the small office building to the left of the garage, and when everyone inside turns to look at us, he shouts, “Look who broke her car!”

I halt fast, giving him a mean side-scowl. “I didn’t break my car.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg, another of Tom’s friends, chuckles from behind the computer. “Bee always says it wasn’t her.”

I harrumph. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“Come on, you guys,” Keagan says, coming up beside me. His green eyes sparkle in that dazzling-Keagan way. He’s not quite a pretty-boy, but he sure is nice to look at, with his thick, wavy brown hair and square jaw and a thin nose. “It was probably Tom’s fault. Slit your tires or something.”

“Finally, someone with sense.” I grin at Keagan. Not for the first time, I wonder why Tom doesn’t work here with all his buddies. He practically lives here when he’s not working the night shift at the warehouse. (Or sleeping. He does a lot of sleeping.)

“Dude, Bee, we haven’t seen you in a while,” Greg says. “How are you?”

“Not so bad. New job and everything.”

Keagan raises an eyebrow. “New job?”

I feel a sheepish grin covering my face. “Yeah, I’m a florist’s assistant now. Today was Day Three on the job.”

“Phew,” Greg says. “What’s that like? Sounds like an allergy attack to me.”

I smack his arm softly. “It’s a little shop called Tracy’s Market Flowers, in Oceanside.”

“That’s a long drive,” he says quickly. (Greg, ever the optimist.)

“Yeah, but it’s worth it,” I say. “So far.” This job has to be the most interesting thing I’ve ever done for money. (Please don’t take that the wrong way.) Giving flowers to surprised individuals, watching their faces fill with the most adorable confusion and delight, is my new favorite thing. “I keep the shop clean and help out at the front desk, but mostly I help deliver arrangements.”

“I’m glad you like it, Bee,” Keagan says, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. It’s not too grimy yet, but it leaves a trail of dirt on his forehead.

These boys, I think, affectionately. “What about you guys? How’s your summer so far?”

“Nothing awful has happened,” Greg answers. “Yet.”

Keagan smiles. “Pretty good. Not as interesting as yours, though.”

“Busy,” Michael says. He drops some paperwork on Greg’s desk and smiles ruefully. “Organize those.”

With Greg grumbling about the messes everyone leaves for him to clean, Michael touches my arm, suddenly all business. “I have to leave in an hour, so we should get you sorted.” He opens the door that leads from the small office to the garage.

My car has already been moved into the garage alongside three others. I try to keep up as Michael weaves his way through the ports, but I accidentally run into four men and a tire en route.

When I finally catch up to him standing by the hood of my car, Michael looks at me and shrugs. “Aside from the tires, how about I give you a full exam? While it’s here.”

“If you think she needs it,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s down to my waist now, and the constant fluttering and swishing around my face sometimes makes it hard to concentrate. (Thing You Should Know About Me #35: Because being bored with short hair is worse than being annoyed by long hair, I’ll never cut it again.)

Michael nods. “Why not? It’s been a while.” He runs a hand through his ruffled blond hair. Now, Michael can surf and play guitar. He should have been named Julian.

I laugh. Quietly.

To myself.

Which is precisely when I discover someone looking at me.

The Boy is standing over the car next to mine, reaching deep into the hood. The first thing I notice about him are his clothes. In the grungy mess of the car shop, I would expect someone dressed exactly like Michael: black and other dark colors, complete with torn jeans and maybe even a bandana like Keagan sometimes uses to keep grease out of his hair. But no. The Boy is wearing a pastel yellow sweater, which I stare at for a second too long. Why on God’s green earth would he wear such a lovely, light-colored sweater to work at a car shop when it’s going to get greasy and torn?

I chide myself for staring at his sweater—so instead, like the social genius I am, I stare at his face. He reaches for something on the table beside him, then slips his hand back into the engine, lips puckered as he bites the inside of his cheek. He’s got that thin, lean look, all high arches and sharp cheekbones. His dark blond hair is purposefully messy, swooping up in the front. (He could give Douglas Booth and Sam Claflin a run for their money.) I notice that his eyes are a light brown, almost golden…and then I try to un-notice because those eyes are looking right at me. Again.

Belatedly, I turn red like a blood moon, and he chuckles.

Chuckles!

NOPE, I think to myself, mortally embarrassed and mourning the loss of my dignity. I turn back to Michael, who’s fiddling around with something next to the engine, eyes squinting in concentration.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, desperate to stop thinking about The Boy and whether or not The Boy is still looking at me and laughing at me, but Michael puts out a shushing hand. I roll my eyes.

Finally, after a few more minutes of muttering under his breath, he straightens and shuts the hood. “You probably need new brake pads, and I think you should have your transmission fluid changed. I can have it done in two or three days. Can you go without a car for that long?”

“I guess so... I mean, I have to, right?” I stutter, trying to imagine how I’ll get to Oceanside.

“Considering I’m doing it for free—”

“Wait, what?”

“I mean, not the tires. But the other stuff is easy. So, yeah, I’m super nice, thank me later.” Michael waves his hand. “If you can wait another hour I’ll drive you home.”

“I guess I have no choice. Have anything to eat?” I think my stomach is eating itself now.

Michael laughs. “Sure, check the office fridge. And Greg is probably hiding a bag of Lays behind the desk.”

I peer into the office window. Greg, who was munching on a bag of BBQ potato chips, slowly takes his hand from his mouth, as if he knows I’m eyeing his snack. He shakes his head, I nod, he shakes his head, I nod, he shakes his head… But I know I’ve won because he quickly goes back to work. (I’m infamous around here for always eating the chips they have stashed.)

“Thanks, Michael!” I holler. I swoop into the office, where Greg is attempting to hide the bag under his desk. Laughing, I shake my head. “No, no, Greg, it’s fine. I’ll check the fridge.”

Greg visibly relaxes, pulling his chips close to his chest, and I laugh harder. All that’s left for me to do is pull out a yogurt and spoon, sit on the edge of the swivel chair across from Greg, and wait for Michael to take me home.