Men Who Should Know Better

My brother's best friend just got under my hood…and under my skin. My car dies three blocks from Jax's shop. It's Sunday. He's supposed to be closed. But there he is—all greasy forearms, stubbled jaw, and the kind of hands that make a girl forget how engines work. I've been crushing on him for two years, and today we’re alone. When I trip and he catches me falling off a stool, he holds on a little too long.

She showed up mad in tiny shorts. He showed up scarred, silent, and completely unprepared for her. My best friend's brother has been keeping me up at night. His angle grinder kicks in every evening like clockwork, sending sparks across my ceiling and ruining every good intention I never had. So I march next door to give him a piece of my mind. One look at those scarred forearms and graphite-dark eyes, and I forget every complaint I rehearsed. He's fifteen years older. A man built from silence and steel, who lives alone in a trailer behind the shop.