Page 121 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

next to him in bed, I guess it doesn’t make my night that bad after all.

I get the car nearly inside the garage, already drenched in sweat

while the humid Arkansas air licks my face and spits on my skin. It’s

insulting. It really is, and it’s even more dreadful that I can’t get the

car over the inch-high concrete floor that meets the gravel road

leading up to the shop.

Pushing my back into the bumper, the rusted frame imprints against

my spine. I continue digging my heels into the gravel until I can steal

a bit of momentum to push the car forward, but I fail.

“Dammit!” I bark, the car nearly coming back for revenge as it drifts

backward a few feet. I manage to get out of the way, stopping it with

my palms while I look on either side to see the front tires are nearly

empty of air again. Looking to the sky in exhaustion, I call out, “Just

give me one break, please!”

As soon as the words hit my lips, I regret them. Dust turns up out of

the corner of my eye, and I jump out of the way, a car speeding up

the driveway and stopping nearby. I feel as if I’m being punished and

consider asking the sky if lightning would be a more appropriate

response here, but it’s too late.

Thunder always comes first.

“What are you doing here?” I pant like a dog in the sun.

Ryan adjusts his blazer jacket and grins like a badly used car

salesman. It’s exhausting enough to push this car out of the field, and

now I have to see his face. But I’m not sure why. I haven’t seen him

in a week since I had my little tantrum, and I’m glad that I kept it

down to just a cup in front of his face.

He doesn’t know the storm I unleashed after he left my house—the

storm Percy selflessly cleaned up.

“I’m just coming by to see what’s been done. That’s all,” he says

cheerfully. “I saw the bank accepted my checks, so I was just curious

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