Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She sits up, holding the blanket to her chest. Her eyes are bright. “Oh, your mom said to tell you that you owe her a lot of lawn care for having her yellow bowl.”
I push my head back on the pillows and groan. “I really didn’t think I had that.”
“You really did have it.”
“Ugh. Okay.” I breathe out and rest my eyes on Sara again. “But you have to help me.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because you let her in.”
She laughs. “She would’ve gotten in either way. And I didn’t let her in. She just came in.”
I’m really not enjoying this open-door policy anymore.
“Are we ordering food or what?” she asks.
I toss her my phone. “I’ll have a burger and fries.”
“That’s what you had last night.”
“That’s what I like.”
Her eyes hood. “So you like what you like, and you like it often?”
“Often.”
She hums. “Well, that’s good since you’re my fake fiancé now.”
“And you’re my new best friend.”
The words tumble out of my mouth before I think about it. Again.
Dammit, I have to stop doing this.
But the more I think about it, the more I like it. The more it makes sense. Not only do I need a new best friend—thank you, Ashley—it’ll help me build trust with Sara.
She blinks once. Then twice.
“It’s a trade,” I say. “Take it or leave it.”
A mischievous grin tickles her lips. “Friends with benefits?”
I grab her and pull her onto me. “As many benefits as you want.”
“Deal.”
I swallow her laughter with kisses and forget all about dinner.
18
Sara
Me: I’m here.
Banks: Come in the side door.
Me: Okay.
I walk around the Carmichael Classics building and find Banks standing at the door. His bright smile, happy to see me, makes my smile stretch from ear to ear.
This whole thing between him and me is bananas. I woke up this morning after getting three hours of sleep because we stayed up all night watching old movies, eating cold pizza that he stole out of Jess’s garage around midnight, and replaying our couch activities.
It’s the most fun I think I’ve ever had in my life. That’s a high in and of itself—but it’s also a little scary. At least, it’s scary until I see him. Then the wobbliness inside me is kicked to the curb.
“Today has taken forever,” he says, pouting.
But as soon as I reach him, the frown leaves his face, and he presses his mouth roughly, yet tenderly, against mine.
I place a hand on his chest and wad his dirty shirt in my fist. I could let him kiss me forever.
Finally, he pulls back.
“So we’re just kissing like that now, huh?” I ask, grinning. “Out it public for the world to see?”
He grins right back. “Do you want me to stop kissing you, bestie?”
No, no, I do not.
“How was your day?” I ask. “Is Tasha ready for her vacation?”
Banks groans. “Stop saying vacation. It’s my new least favorite word.”
I laugh. “You’ll be fine without her.”
He makes a face like he’s not convinced. But I am. I’m pretty sure Banks would be fine in any situation if he wanted to be.
I follow him inside the shop and through a little archway onto the actual floor. The room is expansive and bright with clean, white walls and big overhead lights. Cars line the room, some on the ground and others raised on lifts. It’s surprisingly clean and organized—very much not like his house.
“You need to have whoever cleans this place come to your house,” I say, laughing. “You could eat off the floor here, and I worry about eating off plates in your kitchen.”
He gasps. “I’ll have you know that I clean up here.”
I gasp back at him.
“I do,” he says. “I mean, the guys all help take care of their shit and keep whatever area they’re working in clean. But I always stay late and go through and make sure it’s all where it’s supposed to be.”
He walks over to a display. A plethora of glass jars sit in a red holder, and each is filled with different screws and bolts. On the front of every jar is a white label with black writing, denoting what’s inside.
“I did that,” he says proudly. “Doesn’t it make you feel good to see it?”
“Um, no. But I’m glad it does you.”
He flashes me a disapproving look. “Sometimes I come early on Sunday mornings before dinner at Mom’s and sweep or wipe down all the heavy traffic areas.”
“I don’t …” My brows pull together. “How are you this person here and not at home?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. This place feels like home to me. My work family is here. We have a monthly dinner together here. We stay late and work on deadlines, yell, almost cry …” He chuckles. “At home, it’s just me.”
Interesting.
I know absolutely nothing about cars, but I need to show some interest because this is important to him. Even though his questions yesterday made me uncomfortable, he did it because he suspected I needed to answer them. I know that’s true. He wouldn't have done it otherwise.