Don't Need You - Lilian Monroe Page 0,91
glimmer of something in his eyes.
“That’s very nice of you,” he says slowly. “But I only wanted your keys.”
Redness rises up my neck as I snatch my hand away. I clear my throat, digging through my purse for my keys. I can’t even meet his eye as I give the keychain to him, turning my back and wandering farther into the garage.
I hear the sound of my car engine struggling to turn over, and I try my best to ignore it. My face is red. Blood rushes to my cheeks, making the tips of my ears burn. My heart is stuttering, and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I can’t stand Benji’s insolent stare, or the way he makes my body burn up.
He has no right to make me feel that way. None.
He. Doesn’t. Know. Me.
I walk toward the wall and look at a couple of pictures hanging near the office. When I see Benji’s arm slung around my brother’s shoulders, both of them laughing, my heart tugs. I stare at my brother’s laughing face, wondering when I last saw him looking like that.
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 saying something about olive branches?
Whatever the reason, I gulp down my hesitations and give him a slight nod. “Okay.”
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