Page 32 of Not Made to Last

In my garage.

And knowing that is the only way I know how to heal.

Speaking of healing, it suddenly occurs to me that on the two occasions since our not-so meet cute, I haven’t once asked Rhys howheis healing. I look up, about to do just that, but stop when I catch him focused on a sanding block in his hand. He flips it over. Once. Twice. Then he runs his thumb over the gritty paper. “Huh,” he mumbles, as if it’s the most fascinating thing in theworld. Finally, he lifts his eyes, catches me watching him, and he…

Heblushes.

Ugh.

Rhys is hot, there’s no denying, but he’s not supposed to be cute, or coy, or whatever it is that’s happening right now. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’d seen him last, and watching him now—it feels as though I’m seeing a whole other version of him.

He moves on from the sanding block and makes his way toward the shelf filled with half-empty cans of stains. He picks up one and inspects it, taking his time to read the label.

He doesn’t say a word.

Neither do I.

It’s been like this for a whole ten minutes—ever since he pulled up in a black Range Rover and walked up my driveway, hands in his pockets, cap pulled low on his brow, and proceeded to enter my physical space as easily as he entered my emotional one.

The silence between us has stretched out for so long that it feels like a game now.

Like a dare.

Without a word, I move past him and make a show of closing the garage door. The last thing I need is one of Dom’s friends driving by and seeing Rhys Garrett in my garage. Besides, if Rhys wants to play games, I’ve got time.

What I don’t have, unfortunately, is the ability to be unphased by his presence. I can’t hide the heat that curls up my neck, to the tips of my ears, or the blush the colors my cheeks when he looks at me the way he is. I can’t hide the way my hands twitch, begging to touch him in ways I only fantasize about at night. When I’m in my bed. Eyes closed. Fingers playing beneath my underwear.

And I realize, too late, that it’s one thing to have Rhys sitting shotgun in my car, but it’s another to have him here, alone, no Max, no buffer. When we’re out doing deliveries, there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end to our shenanigans. As soon as it gets close to Max’s bedtime, we stop accepting orders; I take Rhys home, and we go our separate ways. Now, though? It’s barely five in the evening, there’s no allocated end time, and we’re at my house. Technically, if I want things to end, he’s the one who has to leave, and now I’m panicking.

Overthinking.

Because of course, I am.

And Rhys is standing there in his gray tee and black shorts, watching me,examiningme, and I get why so many girls fall for boys like Rhys, because boys like Rhys have a certain charisma and self-awareness that make it easy to fall for their bullshit.

His phone rings, breaking our little stare-off.

“I thought you left your phone in my bag,” I question.

He smiles to one side, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I gotta take this,” he says, all carefree and annoying. He answers the video call before holding the phone in front of his face. “Izzy,” he says in greeting.

“Reese’s Pieces!” his sister squeals, and I crack a smile. “You owe me an entry!”

“Fuck,” Rhys responds. “My bad. I’ll do it now.”

“Is that your brother?” another female voice says, and my pulse rises while Rhys’s gaze drops.

“Yes, Mother,” his sister replies.

A second later: “Hi, Pookie bear!”

I cover my mouth to stop from busting out a laugh.Pookie bear?I die.

“Mother,” Rhys deadpans, his teeth gritted through his fake smile.

“If you want to talk to Rhys, then you call him,” his sister whines. “This is my time.”

“Sorry,” his mother says sarcastically.

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