Page 17 of Rebel Summer

“Anyway, I really am sorry. Truly.”

He made a noise but didn’t actually acknowledge me before reaching deeper into his toolbox.

“I feel terrible,” I tried again. Still no reaction.

My fingers curled into fists. Here I was, basically groveling at this man’s feet, and he couldn’t even give me the decency of eye contact. But I wasn’t going to get annoyed. I took a deep, calming breath—the soothing kind I would write to Dr. Barb about.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked sweetly.

He pulled out a tool and inspected it, wiping some grease off with the towel before looking at me, the glint in his eyes telling me he knew exactly what he was doing.

“No. I’m good. Thanks, though.”

My gaze drifted across his arms, landing on the tangle of ink dressing his shoulders. The casual, deliberate way he pushed my buttons came flying back to my remembrance. I was suddenly aware of why I had been so nervous to speak to Dax. It wasn’t that I was scared to talk to him. It was the way he made me feel.

This weekend was an anomaly. A crazy shift in the universe. So him making it seem like this was something he knew would happen one day had me clenching my fists into balls. It was like being on the second day of my period and someone next to me chomping on the crunchiest vegetable in the world.

Annoying.

But not today. I wouldn’t let him push me that far, which meant I needed to wrap this up. I had said my first apology. And I still had one more.

Also, he needed some clothes.

“Oh, are you looking for your shirt?” I looked around the room, found what I sought, and grabbed the crumpled t-shirt from the floor, shaking the dust off before holding it out to him. “It’s right here.” I smiled at him, friendly-like, as if to say let’s put our differences aside and forget about me smashing into your building.

He eyed the shirt like taking it would give me too much satisfaction, then just stood there and looked at me while I awkwardly continued to hold it out. I shook it at him.

“Come on,” I said, like he was a cat I was trying to convince to eat.

He leaned against the workbench, his ankles and arms folded, taking me in with definite joyous undertones.

“Why do you need me to wear it?”

“I just think you would feel better wearing the shirt while I’m here. While we talk business.”

Oh, I don’t know, Dax, maybe because it’s the professional thing to do.

I had no business telling this man what to wear. I knew this. Yet the deliberate way he was trying to trigger me was…triggering.

He spread his arms out wide and looked around. “This is my business. That you broke into, I might add. So no, I won’t be putting on a shirt. But I’m sorry if it’s distracting for you.”

I was in the process of begging the flush rising on my cheeks to disappear when he leaned toward me, flashing a brief grin and adding, “Man, it’s good to see you.”

I pretended to brush a speck of dirt off my sleeve. “Listen, I know you’re enjoying all of this?—“

“Am I?” he asked.

My gaze narrowed. “You know you are.”

“Just tell me one thing…what does Karma feel like?”

“Dax!” I drew in a breath, physically stopping myself from punching his arm. My hand slapping against what I could only describe as warm, solid rock definitely wouldn’t help anything.

He moved toward the golf cart while he flipped to a specific song he wanted. He was clearly dismissing me, but I wasn’t finished. Not even the song “Witchy Woman” would get me to leave.

Also, these songs…what year was this?

“Listen, Dax,” I began, raising my voice louder to be heard over the music. To my surprise he turned to face me. It took an immense force of willpower, but my gaze locked onto his, ignoring the temptation to peek downward to the land of muscles and abs.

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