Page 108 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

“Maybe for the parts, but the labor is where you’re going to get in

trouble.”

He rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Working on cars is hard.” I sip my coffee casually, trying to

tuck the thought away about what’s harder: working on cars or

having sex on one. “It’s not an easy task. I deserve to be compensated

for my effort and time.”

“I know it is, ladybug. I was in that shop with your dad every day for

—”

I stop him short, the coffee cup flying across the kitchen and landing

in the foyer. My body is on fire, trembling all over while I’m fighting

the urge to wring his throat in the living room. He snatches the

checkbook back and stuffs it into his pocket, eyeing the mess of

coffee and glass in the foyer.

“You have problems.”

“And you can never speak of my dad again,” I bite. “You act like you

were some kind of son to him, but the minute he dies, you’re fucking

Farrah in the backseat of a car. You’re nothing but a—”

He holds up his hand, making his way to the front door. “I don’t want

to argue with you. It’s not worth it.”

“Then don’t come back!”

He pauses in the doorway, his leather loafers covered in coffee. “I

want that car done, Leah. I know you can’t afford this place with only

you working here. You can take the checks as labor and parts. If you

need more, come by my place downtown. I’d be happy to pay you

more when you’re rational again.”

“Don’t expect that to happen anytime soon,” I snarl through my

gritty teeth.

He leaves at once, slamming the door shut so hard the house creaks.

I wait for the tires on his car to squeal away before letting my body

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