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CHAPTER FOUR

Marissa

My douchebag neighbor, who looks far too delectable all cleaned up in that suit with his sleeves cuffed and his strong forearms on display, stares at me blankly, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

Clearing his throat, he looks away and rubs the back of his neck then tugs at his tie like he’s uncomfortable this dressed up. Why’s he all dressed up in the middle of the day anyway? Normally when I see him, he’s in sweats or workout shorts.

Not that I’m complaining. If he’s going to be an asshole, at least he can look good while doing it, right?

Giving myself a subtle shake, I derail that line of thought. I’m supposed to be heading over to the garage I rented for my project car so I can work on my baby. And instead, I’m here giving the one guy who’s been truly awful to me since I moved here a jump.

You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl, I guess.

Along with my dad’s lessons about how to fix cars, came the lessons of helping neighbors and people in distress. Of course, I’m not supposed to be helping men on the side of the road when I’m by myself, but this dude’s in my parking lot, not the side of the road, and he’s kept his distance.

He might be a dick, but he’s not a creep, so I guess he has that going for him.

“Uh …” he looks around as though a spare car battery might pop out from behind a concrete pillar. “It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need a new battery.”

My brows raise. “Did you leave your lights on or anything? Or did it just die out of nowhere?”

His brows crimp, and he looks down. “I don’t think I left the lights on. But I’m not sure.”

I nod. “Well, if it dies again, you’ll need something replaced, either the battery or the alternator. You could take it to an auto parts store and get the battery tested. I’d offer to do it for you, but …” I spread my hands apologetically, though I feel anything but sorry right now. “My tools are at my garage.”

He turns that crimp-browed gaze on me, his eyes sweeping over me again, taking in my hair, my face, my clothes, then back to my face again. “Your … tools?”

The look he’s giving me would be hilarious if I weren’t so used to it by now. First my dad. So many of my coworkers and other shop owners over the years. When I first started working for Garrison, I had to deal with so much misogyny it pissed me off every day. The other women I worked with all kinda brushed it off as a coping mechanism and assured me I’d get used to it, and they’d get used to me, but I never really did. Yeah, I came to expect it, sure. But it still pisses me off every time. I cultivated as many relationships with women-owned shops as I could when I was working in sales, and I’ve made it my mission to hire as many women as I can to work on my team. Smart women who know cars.

“Yeah,” I deadpan. “You know, those things people use to fix things? Like cars?”

He blinks at me a few times, and with a sigh, I slap my hands onto my thighs and push myself to standing, then tuck my hands into the pocket of my hoodie so I don’t give in to the urge to smack him. Or strangle him.

“Right,” he murmurs, looking at his phone. “Sorry. I’m just …” he shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck again, which makes his bicep pop deliciously against the snowy white fabric of his shirt. I still haven’t asked where he’s going.

“In a hurry?” I ask, because he did just make an obvious show of checking the time.

He tips his head back and forth. “Not exactly. I have somewhere to be, but waiting for you to jump my car is faster than getting an Uber or something, so …” He sighs, tucks his phone into his pocket, and looks me in the eyes. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for doing this. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.”

I snort. “What do you mean?” My tone drips with faux innocence. “Oh, right.” I bop myself on the forehead with the heel of my palm, like I just remembered. “You mean when you shut the door in my face the day I moved in and then made me drop my box? And broke the teacup I got from my grandma?”

Wincing, he looks away but meets my eyes again. “Yeah. That. I’m sorry about that.”

It’s only a few words, but he sounds sincere. Pursing my lips, I look him over, trying to decide if I’m willing to let him off the hook that easily.

He sighs at my non-response. “I’m just … I’ve been in a weird headspace. And I took it out on you. It was wrong of me. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ll understand if you keep slamming the door in my face in revenge.”

A laugh slips out at his last words, and I don’t bother hiding my grin. “I might. It’s pretty fun.”

He returns my grin with one of his own, and he’s even cuter when he smiles, which really isn’t fair. Even if I previously thought that since he’s a dick, he should at least be nice to look at, it’s not fair for him to be too nice to look at. There should be limits on that sort of thing.

“Well, I guess I can’t blame you,” he says, then glances at his car, his brow creasing again. “Do you think it’ll start soon?”

“Oh! Right. Yeah. Why don’t you see if it turns on. You’ll want to let it run for a few minutes, though, so the battery gets some charge.”

Nodding absently, he climbs into the driver’s seat, and a few seconds later, his car splutters to life. He gives me a triumphant grin through the windshield, which I return before setting about disconnecting the jumper cables.

He hops out of the car and stands next to me as I lower my hood. Turning to face him, I stuff my hands back in my hoodie pocket, not sure what to do with him standing so close.

Then it occurs to me. “Oh! Hang on.” I do an awkward hop backward and reach into my car, rifling through the center console for one of my business cards.

“Here,” I say, handing it to him. “Give me a call if your battery dies again. There’s no need to waste a bunch of money on a garage when I can hook you up.”

His brow still furrowed, he studies the card, turns it over to glance at the back, then stares at the front some more.

I shift on my feet, pointing at the numbers listed. “The first one’s my office number, but the second one’s my cell. Call that one first.”

Still looking perplexed, he raises his eyes to mine. “Um, thanks?”

Flashing him a smile, I step back. “No problem.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go now. I hope you’re not too late to wherever you’re heading all dressed up like that.”

“A game,” he says still staring at my card, perplexed, the words sounding almost absent, seeming to leave him without thought. “Hockey game. Preseason.”

My eyebrows jump. “I knew hockey fans took the game seriously, but I guess I didn’t realize it was a Sunday best kind of affair.”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head, finally seeming to come back to the present. “Not a fan. Or at least, not just a fan. I play for the Seattle Emeralds. It’s our first preseason game today.” Tucking my business card into his pocket, he pulls out his phone, and his eyes grow wide. “Shit, yeah. I gotta go or they’re gonna slice up my laces. Thanks so much for the jump. Hopefully I’ll see you around.”

And with that, he leaves me gaping at him as he finally closes the hood of his truck and climbs in. It’s only while we’re both sitting in our cars staring at each other through our windshields that I realize he’s waiting for me to leave because I’m blocking him in.

Giving him a sheepish grin, I wave once more, back up, and drive away.

I’m back home after spending a satisfying day working on my baby when my phone rings with an unknown number. Pursing my lips, I consider answering, but I’m in the middle of unpacking and organizing the last few boxes, and I don’t want to stop what I’m doing for a scammer, so I opt to let it go to voicemail. If it’s a real person who actually wants to talk to me, I can call them back.

After a moment, my phone alerts again, this time with a text message.

Hey, it’s Dozer. The guy you gave a jump to earlier? My car died again. I got a jump at the rink and made it home, but I have a feeling I need some help

Biting my lip, I read his message a few times, trying to decide how best to respond. Part of me wants to be snotty. I mean, I’ve been slamming the door in his face every time I’ve seen him so far, so it seems fitting. But I did offer to help him today. And I gave him my card and told him to contact me if his battery needed more than just a jump, which is clearly where we find ourselves.

“Dozer,” I whisper, trying the name out. “What kind of parents name their kid that?”

Shaking my head, I decide to call him back instead of replying to his text. That way I can finish unpacking then break down these boxes and get rid of them.

He answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dozer?” Still sounds like a goofy name. “It’s Marissa. I got your text.”

He lets out a relieved exhale. “Yeah, hey. Thanks for calling me back.” There’s a long pause, but I don’t jump in to relieve the awkwardness. He called me. He can ask for what he needs.

“So, uh, you mentioned tools? And possibly being able to help?”

“Right. Yeah. I have a battery tester. I went to my garage today, and I brought it back with me. I can test your battery for you, and that’ll let you know if it’s bad, or if you’re going to need more serious work done.”

Another soft exhale. “That would be great. You sure you don’t mind?”

His hesitant question is more endearing than it has any right to be. I should dislike this guy on principle, after all. He’s a dick.

But is he really? Maybe he was serious about not letting anyone in because of security concerns. Part of the reason I chose this building was the better security. And since he’s apparently a hockey player …

Maybe he’s had issues with deranged fans trying to get access to his condo?

And maybe I need to stop justifying other people’s bad behavior.

That was my problem with my ex. I kept bending over backwards to justify his unwillingness to commit. To care about what I wanted. Or let me go if he didn’t want the same things.

Instead, he kept giving me just enough hope to twist myself into knots and stick around on the thin premise that maybe this time he’d actually be ready once we got to the next milestone. And I didn’t recognize the constantly moving goalposts for what they were until my little sister had someone showing up for her the way I always wished Peter would show up for me.

It’s an old habit that just won’t quit, even though it’s been years since I broke up with him. I swore off men for a while, deciding that being on my own was the best choice. I needed time to get over my disappointment, and it took Peter a long time to finally accept the reality that I had no intention of getting back together with him.

I’ve dated some since then, but never anything serious. I’m unwilling to put my life and my dreams on hold for someone else ever again. Or hope that someone else will give me the life I’ve dreamed of. Instead, I’m making the life I want for myself.

And in order to do that, I don’t make excuses for people. Not anymore. Instead, I let them show me who they are. And I believe them.

“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. I’m just helping a neighbor, after all. “It only takes like five minutes to test a battery. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Okay. Well, let me know when you have time. I’m pretty free tonight and tomorrow.”

After checking the time and looking down at what I’m wearing—leggings, an oversized T-shirt, and the long gray cardigan I tend to wear at home—I shrug. “I can meet you in the parking garage in ten minutes. I remember where your spot is.”

“Really? Okay. Awesome. See you there.”