Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,40

absolutely hate to be described as fragile before I shook it off. Then I shoved down my disappointment, tucked away the mixture of fear and hope the previous night had given me.

Space.

She needed space.

I needed space to forget the attraction and move on with my life because it was better for her that way.

“Not Charlie,” I agreed, standing, starting for the front.

“Right. As for the other stuff, I am leaving it alone,” Tig said, dropping his arm and starting to move to the side so I could go greet my client. “But know that just because I’m leaving it alone doesn’t mean I don’t see what you’re doing.”

I paused, glanced back. “What am I doing?”

“Pushing everyone away, keeping them at a distance so that you don’t get hurt.”

Yeah, so?

I was an expert at that. My dad had taught me that. And then Lorna. Keep them away so they can’t hurt you.

Except Charlie. Keep Charlie close.

Fucking hell.

Tig crossed his arms, continued quietly. “You deserve to be happy, too, Garret. Just remember that when all of this shakes down.”

I wanted to ask Tig what he thought was going to shake down.

But my client was waiting.

So, I hurried to the front of the shop, not wanting to make her wait any longer, pushing Charlie from my mind as I did so. This wasn’t the time to focus on me and my fucked-up-ness and the fact that I needed to leave her alone.

I needed to concentrate.

Spoiler alert: the thing I was concentrating on was my job.

And only my job.

Not the beautiful blue-eyed, intriguing woman who’d plumbed her way into my life.

Fifteen

Charlie

I wasn’t proud of my actions the next day, using my key to sneak into the shop at just past six in the morning, my code to turn off the alarm.

I worked quickly and efficiently and got the job done before ten.

My note to Tig was short, my invoice minus a day’s labor and a week’s worth of lunches—not that I’d tell him that—and I was packing up my stuff by the time I heard the door in the back of the shop open.

The door that led up to the apartment.

Garret.

“Shit,” I muttered.

I stacked the rest of my tools as quietly as possible, readying to scurry from Tig’s with my tail tucked between my legs.

I was fully prepared to call a spade a spade.

And I had too much on my plate to deal with the confusing mass of muscle and sweetness and heart-skipping-ness (that definitely wasn’t a word) that was Garret.

So, Plan A was running.

Garret had been walking down the hall but turned when he saw me, face going carefully blank. “Hey.”

Shit.

Plan A was apparently out.

So Plan B was having the bare minimum of conversation before getting the fuck out.

I grabbed the handle of the toolbox, stood quickly—

But I hadn’t secured the latches, so my abrupt movement made my things go . . . everywhere.

Wrenches and fittings went one way, elbows and glue another, my soldering kit bounced off the top of my boot with enough force that I was thankful my work boots had steel toes. All the bits and bobs and things saved for the odd day that I might need them rolling in every direction. And the envelope—the envelope, since I had managed to get an appointment with the lawyer today—flew through the air and landed with a sickening plop directly in front of Garret’s feet.

Or maybe that was my soul.

“Shit,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Immediately, he dropped to his hands and knees, started reaching for the odds and ends and tools that were scattered in all directions, gathering them up into a pile.

And I just stood there, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, words not coming, trying to ignore the wave of heat that his voice caused. The way his mere presence had my heart skipping a beat as I remembered the feel of his lips on mine, his hands clenching my hips as he pressed inside. But it was impossible to ignore anything about Garret or our night together.

Despite spending the day yesterday shoring myself up, trying to find some indifference, just being in the same room had undone all of that.

I was flayed open. I was turned on.

I was vulnerable. I was scared.

I couldn’t force a single word past the maelstrom in my heart and mind.

Garret kept talking. “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me coming.” He grabbed the toolbox, began stacking stuff back inside, and doing it a lot more efficiently