Decades probably. I haven’t seen him laugh like that since we were kids.
He’ll understand, once I tell him the truth about what happened. About Lucy. When he meets his nephew. He’ll get it.
He has to. Doesn’t he? He won’t turn his back on us, will he?
My car still won’t start, but I can’t turn around to look. My eyes fill with tears as I stare at the photo. My throat is tight, and I can hardly see through the blurriness in my gaze.
I put a hand to my chest, feeling hurt and conflicted and angry—and I’m not even sure why.
He left. Sawyer just up and took off without looking back. No phone call. No postcard. Nothing. Not one word from him for three and a half years. It took four private investigators—and more money than I could spare—to find him here.
He didn’t stick around long enough to find out Lucy was pregnant. The instant he learned I’d accepted a job with our father—a job that had first been offered to him, mind you—he took off. Gone.
I’ve spent three years looking for him, hoping I could explain.
Benji’s voice makes me jump when he speaks, only a foot or two away from me. “It’s not the battery,” he says. “I can have a look at it this afternoon, but I probably won’t be able to fix it for a while. We don’t keep Aston Martin parts in stock. For obvious reasons.”
I wipe my eyes as subtly as I can, clearing my throat and nodding as I turn to face him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll rent a car. I should go to the hotel and check in.”
Benji’s face softens ever so slightly as he watches me. His eyes flick to the picture behind me and understanding flits across his face. He jerks his chin toward it.
“We have a yearly charity run in Woodvale,” he explains. “The garage put a team together. Sawyer organized it.”
I nod, my throat tight. “He always loved running.” I don’t tell him that the charity run is how we found Sawyer in the first place. His name and photo were printed in the local newspaper, and it was the first time in three and a half years I’d seen any evidence that he was still alive.
“It was fun.” Benji’s eyes search mine.
I point at the picture. “You used to have long hair.” In the image, Benji has a low bun tied at the nape of his neck.
The mechanic chuckles, nodding. “Chopped it off a couple of months ago. Kind of miss it.”
He hands me my keys, our fingers brushing as he drops them into my hand. Instead of walking away from me, though, he hesitates.
“Come on,” he says softly, his voice nothing but a low growl. “I’ll drive you to wherever you were going. The hotel?”
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’ll get a taxi.”
“Rae.” A growl.
He knows my name.
I want him to say it again. Embers burn in my blood as I drag my eyes up his muscular body—all the way up to his searching eyes.
“What?” I whisper.
“I’ll drive you.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
Usually, I’d puff my chest up and set my jaw. I’d tell him to go screw himself and brush past him, finding my own way in the world—but right now, I can’t quite bring myself to do that.
Maybe it’s Benji’s soft, blue eyes. Maybe it’s the way he talked about Sawyer. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s offering to be nice, and who am I to refuse? Wasn’t I just thinking something about olive branches?
Whatever the reason, I gulp down my hesitations and give him a slight nod. “Okay.”
3
Benji
Rae Montgomery smells like heaven. Her scent wraps around me when we get into my truck, making my pulse thrum and my cock harden.
Not good.
Half an hour ago, I was ready to rip her head off. Now I’ve got wood?
She clicks her seat belt into place, keeping her eyes off me. I watch her swallow, her throat moving as her lips pinch. The line of her jaw sweeps back to her long, graceful neck, and I hate how much I’m attracted to her.
Spawn of the devil, remember? The worst of the worst. Something, something, Hitler.
But when I’m sitting right next to her, with her sweet aroma and her kissable lips, she doesn’t seem so bad. When I saw her looking at that picture of Sawyer, I swear I saw a chink in her Hellspawn Armor.
Isn’t that what Sawyer warned me about, though? She’s a hypocrite and a master manipulator.
Meeting my gaze, she arches a brow. “Well? Are we just going to sit in this bucket of rust for the rest of eternity, or are you going to drive me to my hotel?”
Her words jam a hot poker in my chest, and anger flares.
Right. Not an angel. Hot as hell, because that’s where she comes from.
I clear my throat and turn the ignition, shifting in my seat and hoping she doesn’t see the bulge in my pants. Being attracted to her is totally out of the question. Completely forbidden. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
It’s that twisted, broken part of me that craves her. The side of me that likes following through on bad ideas. The darkness that creeps up on me in the dead of night.
That’s the part of me that wants to fuck Rae Montgomery into the next century.
Not the good part. The honorable part. The one that puts family and friends first, that takes care of my little sister, even though she’s old enough to take care of herself.
That decent side of me? Nowhere to be seen. The only thing in my head right now is a deep, throbbing hunger—and Rae Montgomery looks pretty fucking delicious.
Sawyer would fucking kill me if I admitted it. Rip my head clean off my shoulders.
Ignoring the steel in my pants, I crank the radio up and drive off the garage
