Page 11 of Loving You

I jump, falling back onto my ass and hitting the toolbox behind me with my head.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I just couldn’t find you, and I wasn’t sure if you were here or not.”

“I’m fine,” I snap.

I maneuver to my knees, letting my gaze discreetly take in the long, smooth, lean legs in front of me. From the bright red toes peeking out of her white strappy sandals all the way up to her blue cotton shorts and the orange shirt that reads Sunshine Mixed with Lightning.

But after I stand up fully and my gaze meets hers, I scold myself for being so observant of the woman standing in front of me.

Quinn Banks.

I should have known it was her.

I’m not proud of this admission, but every June, as soon asshe reappears in town, those legs become the subject of my thoughts more than they should be.

She smiles, and I hate that it’s genuine.

I hate that every summer she has been here, I’ve made it clear I don’t care to engage in conversation with her, and yet she isn’t daunted that I’m a dick to her.

Shit, maybe I’m not great at communication. I have one woman who won’t stop texting me and one who pretends I’m not a jerk to her.

Perhaps I need to be clearer with my delivery.

“You’re not talking. Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks.

“I’m fine. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re standing in my shop right now. I didn’t invite you here, and as far as I know, you don’t own a car that would need to be repaired.”

That was pretty clear.

She nods slowly, smirking.

“No, you didn’t, and no, I do not. I’m actually here for another reason.”

I raise one brow. She should go on, because I won’t ask her what it is.

“I heard you had an apartment in the?—”

“No.”

“But you don’t even know what I’m going to say,” she argues as I walk past her to the office. It’s small, but it’s just big enough for a filing cabinet, a desk, and two chairs. Office work is my least favorite part of this business, as I’ve mentioned, so I like to keep it simple. The stack of paperwork on the chair behind the desk, though, is not so simple.

“I don’t need to,” I say. “You can go.”

“Well, I heard that you?—”

“I said no.”

“Can I at least give you my speech? You might change your mind.”

“Doubtful.”

My gaze flickers to her legs, slowly moving up her body to her small waist and full chest. Everything about her screams my type. It has since the first day I laid eyes on her years ago.

“Miles, please,” she says softly. My name rolls off her tongue as if she’s begging. Pleading. It makes my heart pound quickly.

I let out a huff.

I don’t care much for that either.

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