Page 16 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

When we get inside the garage, he flicks a bunch of lights on and guides me to the far corner where my van waits, dented and forlorn. Remy pops the hood and starts pointing things out, using words I’ve never heard before to describe the parts of an engine that look like grease-encrusted metal spaghetti.

I nod along and make interested noises.

“Here. This is your brake fluid line.”

I look at the component he’s pointing out. It’s just one noodle of black spaghetti among many. I nod and try to seem engaged. “Right.”

“There’s a leak in it, and it’s got to have been pissing fluid for weeks, at least, judging by the state of it.”

I think of the puddles that used to appear overnight on my garage floor and pinch my lips, feeling stupid. My perfectionist brain gets out the flogger and slaps it against her palm, getting ready to strike. I should have known better. I failed. My throat is tight when I croak, “Right.”

“There’s body work to do. Your front bumper. The fender. The hood.” He points out each item in turn. “You were lucky that the front axle didn’t buckle. You’ll have to replace the air bag and realign the steering column. Your tires are nearly bald.”

“Oh dear.”

Remy folds his arms across his chest and stares at the side of my head. I keep staring at the poor van and try to keep the feelings of failure at bay.

“So,” he finally says. “What do you want to do?”

That makes me turn. I arch my brows. “What are my options?”

“Well, I’d recommend junking it.”

My chest constricts. When I finally get a word out, it’s barely above a hoarse whisper. “What?”

“Get a used van in decent condition and pay for a new paint job. In the long run, it’ll be cheaper than fixing this piece of crap.” He unhooks the hood and lets it drop down. It lands with a clang, which rattles through my bones.

I stare at the dented hood, seeing nothing. I don’t have the money to buy a new vehicle, never mind paint it and put my company logo on it. My savings are already getting near the danger zone. Depleting them completely wouldn’t be smart, especially when I don’t know what will break in my fixer-upper of a house, or what last-minute expenses will crop up with the business.

If I take the job at Terry’s house, I could maybe make it work if I found a cheap enough van and prayed that nothing went wrong, and then—

“What are you thinking?” Remy asks, his voice losing the no-nonsense edge he’d used up until now. It sounds softer than before, like he actually cares what I’ll answer.

I finally turn to look at him, and his good looks nearly blind me again. He’s taller than I am by a few inches, his face carved, his muscles hard. The weak part of me wants him to close the distance between us, wrap me in those strong arms, and promise me everything is going to be okay. I feel so alone.

I give him the best smile I can, which must not be very good because it makes him frown. “I’m thinking I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past six months. Six years.” I shake my head. “Longer. I’m also thinking I probably can’t afford a new car, even if I buy it used.” I grimace. “I’m in a bit of a cash-flow pinch at the moment. I was supposed to be out of trouble within eight weeks, but between this and the hospital bill…”

Remy lets out a long sigh, but as he opens his mouth to answer me, the sound of an engine makes us both turn. A sleek little sports car slides into the garage through the half-open doors, and a manicured hand pokes out of the driver’s window to wiggle its fingers at Remy.

Remy glances at me, his jaw tight. “Excuse me for a second.”

“Remy, baby!” A young woman gets out of the car and blasts us both with a zillion-dollar smile. She’s wearing a figure-hugging red dress and six-inch spike heels. Her hair is perfect. Her skin is perfect. Her jewelry is delicate and understated. Her body is unbelievable. It looks like she’s about to go to an upscale cocktail bar with all her rich friends.

I know comparison is the thief of joy, but comparison is also a sneaky little devil with its hooks in my shoulder and its lips conveniently close to my ear, so it can infect my brain with all kinds of bitter thoughts. I can’t help but look at that woman and think that my blue sundress might not be so cute, after all.

As Remy approaches, she pouts prettily. “You haven’t called me. I’ve missed you.”

A pit opens up in my stomach, and suddenly I feel stupid. Why would the hottest man in a hundred-mile radius be interested in me when women like this are begging him to call? How did I ever think a fling was even an option? He’d never want me. No matter what I do with my hair or my clothes or my shoes, I can’t turn back the clock and look like a lithe twenty-six-year-old in a red-hot dress.

Remy says something I can’t hear, and I sidle a bit closer to eavesdrop. I can’t help myself.

“I know we agreed.” She sighs, putting a hand on her hip. “But we had so much fun. I’m meeting the girls tonight and I thought you might like to join…”

“We had fun, Anna,” Remy replies, voice neutral yet hard. “But now it’s done.”

Ouch. I hide my flinch. I am definitely not having a fling with this man. Knowing my habit of getting too attached once sex is on the table, I would definitely get hurt if we ever got involved.

“Will you at least take a look at my car?” The woman bats her eyelashes at the mechanic, and I have to turn away. I can’t listen to this. I wander down the side of the garage, pretending to be fascinated by the huge tool chests and bits of machinery that line the wall. A door appears in front of me, and I glance through the grimy window. A messy office is on the other side, with a beat-up office chair and an ancient computer. I block out the sound of the conversation behind me and study the shelves, the desk, the random assortment of stuff stacked in every corner.

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