Page 36 of Stuck With the Best Man

“By the way,” Ben adds, “would you mind if I watched you at work? I admit I’m a little embarrassed that I don’t know how to change a tire myself.”

I’m openly scowling at this point, but neither Greg nor Ben is even glancing in my direction.

“Hey, no problem, kid.”

Greg hauls the spare tire out of the floor of the trunk. He mutters something about how it’s a good thing that it’s a proper spare tire and not a donut—whatever that means—and then even goes so far as to gruffly compliment Ben on hisnice cah,or rather,car, if you understand the accent.

To my utter horror, I think Greg actually likes Ben.

My sour mood worsens. It would’ve been nice if I actually had some evidence to back up the claim that Ben can’t expect everyone to like him.

Greg fetches a metal contraption on wheels from his van that I think is called a jack. Before Ben can close the trunk door, Greg pops his head through the opening and makes direct eye contact with me. I jump slightly, having not realized that he even noticed I was there.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ll need to step out of the car while I lift it. It’s a liability thing.”

I frown. The pitter-patter of raindrops has grown a little more insistent in the past few minutes.

“You’re welcome to sit in my van to stay out of the rain,” he offers.

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

With a quiet sigh, I climb out of the car and the boys get to work.

I don’t really know what to do with myself except stand there and watch. I hold a hoodie I grabbed from my tote bag over my head to protect my hair and face from the rain, but it’s not cold enough to actually put it on. In fact, it’s dreadfully warm and muggy. As if this day couldn’t get more miserable.

While Greg works, Ben lowers to one knee beside him to watch. I’m surprised when Greg even offers verbal instructions and explains that he can get a more compact version of his car jack to keep in the trunk at all times. He suggests a few brands, and Ben takes out his phone to dutifully note them down. Neither one of them pay much attention to me, which is probably a good thing, because I think I’ve got a bad case of stink-eye that no amount of fake smiling and forced politeness will cure.

The rain falls in plump droplets. I’m relieved that the pace remains steady. It’s not fully raining yet, at least, not enough to soak through the thin cotton I’m holding over my head. I desperately hope the real storm is still hours away from us.

I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that it actually doesn’t take that long to change a tire. Greg manages to do his job and gives Ben a thorough explanation in about ten minutes. When he lowers the car back down, I say a quickthank youand get back into the car. We need to get back on the road.

I watch as Ben shakes hands with Greg and helps him carry his tools back to the van. I can hardly hate him for being kind and helpful to the man who just rescued us, but I have plenty of other things to hate him for.

Another seven minutes pass before Ben slides back into the driver’s seat. If another minute had gone by, I might have considered driving away without him, if not for the fact that he has the keys in his pocket.

It’s now three thirty. Both of us glance at the time on the digital screen set into the dashboard as he starts the engine. We’ve lost an entire hour.

Ben glances at me and cringes. “It’s okay. I’ll drive fast.”

“You’ll drive the speed limit,” I correct him. “Because if you get pulled over for speeding, that’ll take even more time.”

“Good point.”

Greg is the first to pull away from the edge of the road. Ben waves cheerfully at him as he goes, then checks to make sure the lane is clear before finally navigating the car back onto the highway.

“Maybe I was wrong,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Maybe everyone does like you.”

“Everyone but you.” He says it lightly, almost nonchalantly, but there’s a note of frustration in his tone that I’m becoming familiar with.

At that, I feel a little guilty. If I’m being honest, I know that I’m acting like a brat, and now that the confusion between us about the first time we met is cleared, it feels childish to still despise him for that. Also, he apologized for theGisellesituation, and I can hardly hate him for a mistake he didn’t realize he was making.

So, really, why do I dislike this man? He’s presumptuous, overconfident, and annoyingly self-assured in a way that grates on my nerves.

But, if I dig deeper, I know the real reason that I don’t want to like him is because I know exactly how easy it would betolike him. I’ve liked him before. That day at the Strand, I liked him a little too much, a little too quickly.

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