Eden

Over the course of the last month, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with this town. With the summer vacation season officially behind us, things are a bit quieter at Miller’s. Margie says that by the end of October the quiet will give way to more guests arriving to enjoy the fall foliage. I get it—this town is postcard idyllic.

Everyone is welcoming, the scenery is beautiful, and with each passing day, I feel more at home. I’ve gotten friendly with Julie, who is Margie and Ron’s daughter that I took over for. She’s a twenty-one-year-old community college student who laughingly calls herself an oops-baby. Since she’s back at school she’s working part-time at the front desk, so we’ve gotten to talk a bunch. She’s invited me out with her and a group of her friends tonight and I’m excited about going.

My anxiety about moving up here was so unnecessary. Although I never expected to, I fit in here. When I visit the shops on Main Street, people are starting to call my name and wave, and I do the same to them. Back in Jersey, nothing like that happened anywhere but on the block I grew up on.

Other than the night after the grocery store incident when I could hear him in his room, over the last month, I haven’t had to ignore Donovan Beckett at all—because he’s not here. I noticed his big truck was gone the morning after what I’ve come to think of as the store thing. When it was still gone a week later, I broke down and asked Margie over lunch what was up.

“Should I send someone in to clean room thirty since Mr. Beckett is gone?”

Margie shook her head as she squeezed mayo onto her turkey and cheese sandwich. “Already done. I had the girls take care of it days ago.”

I didn’t enjoy the feeling of disappointment that settled in my stomach at her confirmation that he was gone. Seven years and just gone in the blink of an eye suggested he’d left because of me. After all, I was the only thing different about Miller’s.

“So, we can rent the room out now?” I asked.

Margie raised her eyebrows as she set the container of mayo down on the table. “Why ever would we do that?”

“I, um, well, if he’s gone, shouldn’t we rent the room out?” I spluttered.

It felt like Margie’s gaze took on some kind of lie-detector quality as she silently assessed me. As the seconds passed without a word, I started to think she was not going to answer.

“He’s not gone for good Eden—he travels for work. Sometimes he’s gone a day or two, other times it’s as long as six weeks, but he always returns. This is his… well, for lack of a better term, it’s his base.”

Although I’ve wondered—excessively—about where he is I’m not sad about these Donovan-free days since it’s given me time to settle in without having him making me jumpy.

Without any distractions, I’ve been able to get into a routine, which I’m enjoying. I’m off work today and I’ve been busy. I’ve been to the bank to deposit my second paycheck, after which I stopped at The Cuppa to have some coffee. Then I went to the library and signed up for a library card so I could take out eBooks with the Over Drive app. After that, I made a stop at Alan’s Auto World to get motor oil, a new oil filter, wiper blades, and wiper fluid for my car before I headed back to Miller’s.

Margie and Ron gave the okay for me to do my car work in the maintenance garage that houses some kind of bike that’s beneath a cover, a quad with a plow on the front, and all of the tools and equipment necessary for Ron and his crew to keep the property and all of the vehicles in top shape. Having access to the garage is an awesome perk. My baby needs a little more TLC than a younger, newer car would, but I can’t imagine driving anything else.

Pulling up my music app, I press play on my classic rock playlist before setting my phone on the counter closest to my car. Humming along to The Eagles Take it Easy, I pull a faded yellow bandana from the front pocket of my well-worn denim overalls and put it over my hair before I tie it into place. Heading around to the rear of my twenty-seven-year-old Jeep Grand Wagoneer, I open the cargo area and take out my rolling creeper, jack stands, and lift kit.

Once I’ve got the Jeep up onto the jack stands I slide a wrench and flashlight into my pocket, grab my oil pan, lie back on my creeper, and roll under the car. Setting the pan in place, I loosen and remove the plug. With the oil draining, I wheel out from under the car and carefully check over the entire body for any signs of rust or peeling paint. The dark blue paint and faux wood paneling that accent the car are in great shape, something I’m damn proud of. With my exterior check complete I get back on my creeper and maneuver back under the car to check on the rest of the undercarriage.

The reason my car is in incredible shape at twenty-seven years old is because it is constantly maintained. My grandparents bought it new and since my grandfather was a mechanic, he kept it pristine. After he passed my grandmother, who’d been his assistant at the garage for the entire forty-six years they were married, took over and did all the work herself.

Everything I know about car maintenance I learned from the two of them. As far back as I can remember I always knew I wanted to do one of two things—rehab classic cars or work in lodging. Although I wound up choosing to work toward a degree in hospitality, I never stopped loving cars. I worked in garages from the time I was fourteen and could legally have a job and from my senior year of high school on, I took classes and got my ASE G1 certification. Keeping up with my grandparents’ legacy car allows me to continue enjoying my love for all things automotive.

Alone in the garage, I’m free to let my freak flag fly, and I sing along spiritedly to the music as I click the button on my flashlight and begin a thorough examination of the undercarriage of the car. My grandfather always said that with proper maintenance, a car could run for two decades or more—and the Jeep is proof of that. I sing louder as I check over each nook and cranny and confirm that I’ve gotten another three thousand miles under my belt with no corrosion to be found.

With my inspection complete, I wheel out from under the car. Standing, I dust myself off, head over to the workbench, wipe my hands off on a rag, set a timer on my phone, and pick up my iPad mini. While I was at the library, I loaded a thriller, so I pull up the book and dive in. There’s nothing I love more than a good book and it doesn’t take long for me to become engrossed. I’m so into it that I startle when the alarm on my phone chimes to let me know forty-five minutes have passed. Turning my iPad off I set it down before I get back down on my creeper and roll myself beneath the Jeep. I grin when I find the oil has stopped coming out. I’ve been working on this car for so long that I know exactly how long it takes to drain, and I haven’t been wrong in years. Singing along to Cheap Trick’s I Want You to Want Me, I put the plug back in and start to tighten it. I’m really rocking out when the music abruptly stops.

“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”

I’ve heard him speak less than ten words—I must’ve done a mental count at some point—but I know the voice belongs to Donovan Beckett. The reason I know it is the awareness currently zooming through my body like a Bugatti Veyron going from zero to ninety in under two seconds. Dammit. All this time without his presence has done nothing to temper my reaction to him.

I rub my hands against my denim-covered legs and pray I’m not blushing as I wheel out from under the car. My breath catches in my throat as I find myself looking up at an annoyed looking Donovan. Arms folded over his chest, he’s staring down at me in a way that suggests I’m doing something crazy. Too bad his sour disposition doesn’t take away from his looks, because it’s really not fair that he’s so damn swoon-worthy. Sitting up, I wipe the back of my hand over my right cheek as I blink with confusion.

“Huh?”

Uncrossing his arms, he gestures to the car. “That car weighs several thousand pounds. Since you probably weigh a hundred after a large meal I have to ask—what the hell do you think you’re doing under there?”

Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

Standing, I put my hands on my hips and glare up at the giant jerk. As per usual, he’s dressed all in black. Johnny Cash would be proud.

“For the record, I weigh more than that,” I say stiffly. Only by six pounds, but that’s beside the point. “I’m doing an oil change,” I continue. “Which is something I’ve done hundreds of times over the course of my life. Do you have some kind of problem with that, Mr. Beckett?”

I’m highly annoyed, yet I can’t help noticing the way his too-blue eyes drop to my lips as his nostrils flare. When he brings his eyes back up to mine, he raises a brow. “Oh yeah? You’ve done hundreds of oil changes?” he asks in a dubious tone.

It’s official. In addition to being crazy gorgeous, Donovan Beckett is the most infuriating man alive.

“Yes, you big oaf. I’ve done hundreds—probably more than a thousand—oil changes. I’m guessing you think only men can work on cars?”

He glares at me. “I didn’t fucking say that.”

“Not those words,” I agree. “But your attitude and tone absolutely imply it.”

He stares at me for several seconds in silence. “I haven’t met a lot of women who know anything about cars,” he finally says.

I briefly wonder if it is possible for steam to pour out of the ears. If it is, mine must look like two teakettles that have been left on the stove for too long. “You need to expand your knowledge of women,” I snip. “Spoiler alert, we can do more than bake cookies and clean.”

His lips quirk for half a second before his expression returns to its typical stoniness.

“I didn’t mean it like that and I’m not looking to get beaten over the head with a whole women’s lib thing. I’m well aware that women aren’t confined to cooking and cleaning but thanks for the reminder.”

Turning, he stalks out of the garage without another word. I take a minute to get my heart rate under control as I walk over to my phone and turn my tunes back on. With Jackson Browne’s Somebody’s Baby on, I get back on my creeper and slide under the Jeep to tighten the drain plug. As I finish, I hear the sound of another vehicle pulling into the garage. I lie to myself for a few seconds that it must be someone else even though I know without looking it’s Donovan’s black Ford truck with the super dark window tint.

Wheeling out from under the Jeep, I grind my teeth together when I see that my guess was correct. Mr. Surly backed his truck into the garage and he’s popped the hood. Awesome—and by this, I mean awesomely bad.

“Are you allowed to be in the garage?” I demand.

Donovan looks over at me like I’m insane. “If it’s on the property, I’ve got permission to use it,” he answers. “Feel free to call Margie or Ron to check.”

Muttering under my breath about assholes, I look away. Forcing myself to ignore him, I get up off the creeper and start working on taking my car down off the jacks. I put the lift kit into position under the left front side of the car and turn the jack to get the lift up in position. Once it’s right, I step back and turn the crank to drop it down. I’m used to the loud sound, but clearly Donovan isn’t because he’s around the front of the car lightning fast. Turning, I give him a withering look as I pull the lift out and roll it to the back, where I repeat the process.

Every time I glance at him from the corner of my eye, I see that he looks way stressed out. Ignoring him, I go around to the other side of the car. When he follows, I have a sneaking suspicion that I know exactly what he’s doing. This infuriating man is likely going to result in my needing blood pressure medicine. After taking a deep breath to calm myself as much as possible, I turn and stare at him in exasperation.

“Are you seriously standing here spotting me?” I ask incredulously.

Dammit. He totally is. His expression tells me he’s no happier about it than I am. “Looked it up on my phone. That car weighs about five thousand pounds.”

Cocking my head, I wait for him to continue. When no further explanation is provided, I throw my hands in the air. “And?”

His eyes narrow as he stares at me. “Fucking ignore me and finish,” he growls.

Stupid overgrown man. Taking his suggestion, I pretend he isn’t there while I finish lowering the Jeep. As soon as all four tires are on the ground, Donovan walks away and I let out a relieved breath. I roll the creeper to the rear of the Jeep and then bring back my jack stands and then my lift kit. As I open the rear and lift up the creeper to put it into the boot of the car, he reappears at my side.

“Unfuckinbelievable,” he snarls as he bends down, grabs the lift kit, and sets it down in the boot of my Jeep.

That. Is. It. If this is his version of being a gentleman, it’s falling well short of the mark.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare up at him. “I assure you I was more than capable of getting it back in.”

He shakes his head and says nothing as he crouches down, grabs the jack stands, tosses them into the boot area, turns on his heel and walks away. I’ve never wanted to throttle someone more. Slamming the rear door closed I walk around the car, open the driver’s door and lean in to pop the hood. When I get to the front of the car and open the hood all the way, I hear him cursing under his breath.

I do my best to keep my attention focused on the task at hand while I bring the containers of oil over to the car and start the process of pouring it in. Still, from the corner of my eye I notice that although Donovan has his hood open, he’s not actually doing anything. I mean, he’s going through the motions like he is, but it’s becoming more and more obvious by the second that he has no clue what he’s looking at. Anyone can pull out the dipstick and look at it, but since he’s now checked it a few times, I’m realizing it’s nothing but a prop that’s allowing him to monitor me. Not for nothing, he’s checked the dipstick enough that I can tell he needs oil. I don’t think he knows it, though.

People are always stunned to realize I know what I’m doing with cars, so I get his surprise—even though he’s taking it too far. I was trailing alongside my grandparents learning about cars when I was knee high to a grasshopper and I started helping with oil changes when I was eight. I changed my first tire (with an assist when it came time to lift it into place) when I was ten. By the time I was twelve, I could do an oil change myself. Cars are in my blood and I’m confident in my abilities in spite of the many, many people who have doubted me.

With the oil full, I put the cap on, tighten it, and then set about disposing of the empty containers. Coming back around the front of the car, I wipe my hands on one of the old blue rags I keep in my pockets as I surreptitiously watch Donovan check his oil for the fifth time. With a heavy sigh, I walk toward him. It’s impossible to miss the way he stiffens as each step brings me closer. I’d ask if I smell, but after the night in the grocery store, I understand this is just how he is. Clearly, people are not his favorite. If Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility were an actual thing, I have no doubt Donovan Beckett would own one.

Leaning against the truck, I look up at him. I try not to take it personally when he leans back, like being close to me is somehow offensive to him. It’s not like I had a plate of garlic for breakfast or anything. “You need oil,” I announce.

Glancing down, I note that his fists are clenched. This makes the tendons in his muscular forearms stand out and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hands over his skin. He’s a tall man whose stance could cause one to feel threatened, but I don’t feel like that at all. Whatever his issue is, Donovan is not a threat to me physically. When he makes a low sound, I look up and meet his eyes. Surprise, surprise— he’s glaring at me.

“I don’t need oil,” he snaps.

I savor the moment and grin up at him as I prepare to drop the bomb. “Actually, Stretch, you do. I guess no one ever clued you in to the fact that the markings on a dipstick aren’t just there for decoration.” After taking one of my blue rags from my pocket, I stand on my tiptoes, lean under the hood, and pull the dipstick out. Holding it up, I gesture to where the oil line is with my free hand. “This clearly shows you’re low. Also, it’s thick and dark, which means you need a drain and change.”

The expression of disbelief on his face makes my lips quirk and I come this close to laughing. “The dashboard system hasn’t told me I need oil,” he mutters.

Sliding the stick back in, I shrug and stand up straight. “No computer system will ever be as thorough as a person. Not for nothing, if you get some oil, I can do the change for you.”

His body goes rigid. “Stay away from my truck.”

My brows shoot up in surprise. The defensive way he just said that could make a person wonder if he’s got a suitcase full of gold bars inside. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t—he’s just being a dick.

“You could try being a bit less hostile,” I huff.

“I have a guy,” he says gruffly.

I can’t help it—I laugh in his face. “Of course you do. Only someone with a penis is allowed near the engine of your big black beauty, am I right?”

He looks equal parts chagrined and infuriated. “I really don’t need this shit,” he huffs.

Still laughing, I turn on my heel and walk back to my Jeep. The sound of his truck hood closing is followed by the slamming of his car door. I keep my back to him and give no reaction as he starts the truck and pulls out of the garage.

Forcing myself to continue on, I go to the bench and pick up the wiper fluid I bought earlier. As I do, I try my best to ignore the fact that my hands are trembling. I don’t know why I react to Donovan Beckett the way that I do, but I don’t like it.