Page 122 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

if you—”

“Screwed you over?” I cut in.

He nods. “Yes.”

“I thought about it, but I was trying to be the bigger person.”

“I like that,” he says, coming to my side and undoing his jacket. He

lays it over the back window, busted out and glassless since the

nineties. “Ready to push?”

“How about you push, and I steer?”

He hardly looks amused by my offer. I begrudgingly roll my eyes and

lean against the bumper of the car once more. He does the same, the

two of us rocking back twice in unison before running forward. The

car manages to drag forward against the gravel until the low tires

find the concrete. I hiss a noise to signal him to stop, and he does, the

car coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of my crowded shop.

“Thanks,” I say between deep gulps of air.

“Anytime,” he replies.

While he grabs his jacket, I go to get a drink of water out of the

fridge. I grab him one too. My father’s whiskey is tempting, but I

ignore it for now. Ryan takes the water with a slight nod, and I tip the

bottle against my lips, watching him like a hawk.

He must notice my intense glare, wiping the sweat off his pale

forehead before asking, “What?”

“You never come over with good news,” I breathe. “What is it now?”

He grins like a guilty bastard, and my skin crawls at the sight.

“What’s the matter, ladybug? Since when did my random appearance

at your house make you so anxious?”

“Since you came by to tell me you were marrying someone,” I point

out. “Or since you were here last week to tell me you wanted a car for

the wedding, while knowing damn well Mike’s shop downtown could

have gotten you a car without the personal ties between us coming to

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