Don't Need You - Lilian Monroe Page 0,86

money.

Yes, I’ve spent a lot of time with the mega-wealthy. I’ve gotten grease stains from their luxury cars and soaked up the contempt from their stares. The rich use and abuse people like me, and then they move on to the next victim. There are enough rich assholes in Woodvale to keep me occupied—and to keep business booming. I know how to deal with them. I’m used to the dismissive comments that come tossed with the car keys.

I take their money with a smile on my face and build myself a better life. Day by day. Dollar by dollar. Rich bitch by rich bitch.

Sawyer’s sister is just the same. Privileged heiress to her parents’ empire, she’s here to fuck up Sawyer’s life. He didn’t play by the billionaire oil tycoon rules, and now he needs to pay. She’s judge, jury, and executioner. Nothing will stand in her way. She’ll gladly step on my neck if it’ll get her where she needs to go.

I’ve seen it time and again.

Well, I’m not going to let that happen to Sawyer. His sister isn’t welcome here. As I walk toward the garage floor, I feel the tension ratchet up in my body, gripping every muscles as I ball my hands into fists.

Sawyer’s a good guy. The best worker I’ve ever met. A happy-go-lucky kind of friend, who doesn’t deserve to be dragged back to the hellhole from whence his sister came.

He has values. Integrity. A backbone.

He’s not like them.

He escaped the elitist, money-hungry society his parents belong to. He left to create an honest life for himself. He doesn’t want to go back.

My boots smack on the concrete floor as I make my way to the main garage, ready to kick his sister to the curb. She’s not going to get to Sawyer unless he wants to see her. I’ve seen him come into his own since he’s been in this town. He’s found a home. A place he wants to settle down.

He’s found peace—and I know more than anyone how much peace is worth.

Now, this Rae chick wants to come and snatch it away again?

Fuck no. Not if I have anything to say about it.

I come around the corner and see the edge of a wheel. When the bumper comes into view, I recognize it as an Aston Martin. Does this chick think she’s fucking James Bond? She shows up here with a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car, coming to see her brother who was so broke he had to crash on my couch for the first eight months he was in town.

Rich bitch, indeed.

I won’t let her walk all over me, and I sure as hell won’t let her get close to Sawyer.

Protective anger flares in my chest as I walk the rest of the way into the shop, expecting to square up against the Queen Bee and tell her to get the hell out of my garage.

When I walk out into the open garage space, though, I stop dead in my tracks.

In skin-hugging jeans and a plain white T-shirt, she looks like she could bring any man to his knees—including me. Her sleek brown hair is pulled into a tight ponytail that would make Ariana Grande jealous, and my eyes drift down to her ass. She glances around the garage with her nose turned up. She has that I own the ground you stand on aura all wealthy people possess. Hearing my boots scuff on the ground, she turns to face me.

I almost fall flat on my ass.

Full, kissable lips. Fluttery eyelashes rimming soft brown eyes. A delicate nose, and a Marilyn Monroe beauty mark above her upper lip. Sawyer didn’t mention that his sister’s a knockout.

I can smell the money from halfway across the room. Its stench is emanating from her haircut and her nails and her perfect, silky skin. She looks like she just walked out of a beauty magazine trying to sell me fucking moisturizer.

My gaze lands on her eyebrow, where an inch-long scar runs from the bridge of her nose through her eyebrow, and a sick part of me likes that she’s not, in fact, perfect.

Her pink, glossy lips stay pinched together. She looks me up and down, and I can almost sense the judgment pulsing off her, hitting me right in the gut.

Thump, thump, thump.

Her gaze hammers into me.

I’m better than you, it says. She sweeps her eyes up from my dirty work boots, up my navy coveralls, and finally landing on my face.

Yeah, I’m wearing a greasy uniform.