Page 45 of Tell Me Again

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stops next to the trunk, his eyes showing some sort of concern, and he gives me a weak smile. “Let me drive you the rest of the way?”

His voice is kind and genuine, like he actually fucking cares. Because maybe he actually does.

Shit, why is my heart trying to interpret this in all the wrong ways?

I guess I have to remind it that he’s engaged and straight. And he’s just trying to be nice because he actually is sorry about what happened ten years ago. So maybe we can be friends.

“Uh, thanks, but you—you don’t have to. It’s only another mile. I can manage.”

He still doesn’t argue with me, but his frown deepens a bit and then morphs into some other look—skeptical, maybe, with a hint of, god, it’s that same sexy. Shit, I’m just so done for.

“I’m sure you can,” he says, and yeah, it’s definitely some weird, sexy, teasing grin now that’s much too fucking hot. “But I’m planning to beat you at bowling tomorrow, fair and square. If you’re too sore to move, it won’t feel like a real win, you know?”

Shit, he’s more than just hot. He actually cares. Like, really actually cares. And for some reason, his teasing me feels so fucking good—almost like old times.

I shake my head, but I can’t help laughing. “No, I guess not.”

I bend over to pick up the battery—and yeah, I’m just gonna ignore the ache in my back and shoulders. Not groaning. I’m totally not groaning. Then I heft it up into the trunk of his car, and he grins at me again as he shuts the trunk.

“Come on,” he says.

I wish I didn’t still hesitate. I mean, the battery’s already in the trunk. And he clearly wants to help. And I clearly want to spend more time with him.

But it’s my heart. It clearly wants something I know it can’t have. It wants whatever we were on the cusp of figuring out that afternoon ten years ago. That thing he disguised as curiosity. That thing that I can still feel so strongly.

It wants him.

I nod with a small smile and then jog around to the passenger side and climb into the car.

Chapter Eighteen

Josh

“God, no. The last time I changed a car battery was sometime in high school, I think. My mom’s car. But I remember it being easy enough. As long as you’ve got the right size sockets, that is.”

Coop laughs lightly. “I should, yeah,” he says. Then he points to the left. “It’s, uh, here. The driveway there.”

I pull off the highway and into Coop’s driveway, which is really just a long, flat stretch of dirt road. Ahead of us, I can see Coop’s truck sitting just outside of an older mobile home, and beyond the home, there’s a huge expanse of empty grassland that might have been an agricultural field at one point. Now, it’s just knee-high weeds and grass. But it looks so quiet and peaceful, and it sort of reminds me of where I lived when we were kids back in Garrington. We’d had a much bigger house and only about three acres, but the land was a lot like this—an open field with a few trees, right out past the edge of town. Coop had lived about a mile away, near the school where his mom had taught first through third grade.

“I kinda miss this,” I say as I pull up next to Coop’s truck and put the car in park. “Omaha’s so different. So much busier and louder and... I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my job and—and the city and everything. But I miss this. The quiet, you know?”

He doesn’t answer, and when I glance sideways at him, I can feel a tension that hadn’t been there a minute ago. He’s sitting stiffly, staring toward his house.

“Uh, so, you want some help? With the battery, I mean?” I ask.

He’s silent for another moment, and the muscle in his jaw tightens a little. Then he lets out a short breath and looks down. “No, uh, I should be able to handle it. But thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.”

God, I wish I could tell what he’s thinking, and it honestly feels like he almost wants me to argue with him and insist I stay and help. But there’s also something else there, something in his voice that’s just tugging at me. And it’s probably related to whatever his reason is for being so obviously reluctant to ask for or accept help, now and earlier, when he didn’t want to take the money I offered him.

Or maybe his day’s just been as long and exhausting and emotionally taxing as mine.

He starts to take his seat belt off, but he grimaces as he shifts in the seat.

And shit, I know that grimace. I see it all the time. It’s one that says 800 milligrams of ibuprofen three times a day. At least now I have an excuse to stay and help.

I shut the car off, and I feel him look over at me, but I just shrug. “You’re sore, man. Let me help?”

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