Page 79 of Come Break My Heart Again

I scoff. Pretty sure the prison guard who witnessed our breakup would disagree.

“I’m … worried about you.”

“I’m not yours to worry about, Ryder.”

When I glance over, his jaw is taut.

“I didn’t see your boyfriend when you were having a panic attack on the porch.”

I wonder who mentioned Prescott to him. Tuck, probably, although I’m not sure how that would have come up. Did Ryder ask if I was single? I stop that dangerous thought from going any further.

“I’m fine,” I say coolly.

“No, you’re not.”

He’s right. I’m not. I’m a mess. But he isn’t supposed to be able to tell that.

Thankfully, we reach the group before he can say anything else.

16

Rather than turn left, in the direction of my house, I take a right, heading toward the outskirts of town. I’ve never been to the local garage, but I’ve driven past it a few times before. Fernwood is one of those towns tiny enough that it’s easy to have a general sense of where everything is, even the places you don’t visit often.

My speed slows as soon as I spot the illuminated sign ahead. Streetlights are few and far between, soHank’s Garageshines like a beacon through the darkness around me.

I flick on my blinker and pull into the small parking area.

One end of the structure looks like a storefront with glass windows and a door that readsOFFICE. The rest of the building is separated by massive metal sliding doors, each bay with a number painted on it, stretching upward several feet. The lights are on in one.

I head for the normal-sized door next to the large garage one, which is propped open with a paint can. Peek inside.

Ryder is bent over the front end of a car that appears several decades old, tinkering with something beneath the open hood. He’s wearing a white undershirt that’s stretched tight across hisback. It does nothing to conceal the flexing of his muscles as they shift and bunch while he works.

If I was a little more secure about where we stand, I’d wolf whistle.

He’s alone. The whole space is open, two other cars inside the garage. One of them is up on a lift.

Shelves cover the back wall, every inch of them filled. There are orange plastic bottles, metal spray cans, stacks of rags, disposable gloves, clear containers, drills, and a lot of twisted metal I’d guess are car parts, but I couldn’t even attempt to name them. A radio croons in the background, spilling out lyrics to a leisurely country song that seems out of place under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Hi,” I say.

Ryder’s shoulders tense a split second before he straightens and turns around to face me.

I ogle the roped muscle lining his forearms unashamedly as he wipes his hands on a rag and then tosses it away, leaning back against a headlight. “Hey.”

“This your car?” I ask, taking a few steps forward to look more closely at it.

I don’t know much about any vehicle, including my own. But I’d rather focus on the car than try to get a read on how Ryder feels about me showing up here.

“Right now, it’s a hunk of metal on wheels. But, yeah, eventually. If I can get it to run.”

“It’s cool. Vintage.” I walk forward to run my fingers along the fender, focusing on the scratched paint job because I could really use a distraction from the dangerous flips my stomach keeps doing. “I like the roof.”

When I turn around, Ryder’s staring at me. “What are you doing here, Elle?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Ryder makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, which is a little offensive. We’re notthatfar from my house. Ten minutes at most.

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