Prologue
Prologue - Dylan
Six Months Ago
He’s wearing khakis. To move.
Khakis and a crisp oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, polished brown leather shoes that probably cost more than my mortgage, and a goddamn belt. The pants have a perfect crease pressed down the front like he’s heading into a board meeting instead of hauling boxes.
I’m already regretting this.
I sit sprawled in the old lawn chair just inside the open garage door, one booted foot propped on the cooler, and watch him.
He’s hot—there’s no getting around it. Sandy-blond hair catching the afternoon sun, unfairly thick eyelashes, and a body that looks like it knows exactly how to move. Every time he bends to grab another box, the oxford pulls tight across his shoulders, and yeah… his ass is ridiculous. Firm, shaped just right under those pressed khakis.
Doesn’t change the fact that he looks like the kind of guy who has strong opinions about wine and thinks leasing a Lexus makes him interesting.
I should probably help. I don’t.
Instead, I light another cigarette and take a long, slow drag, letting the smoke curl out through my nose while the two moving guys trot back and forth like ants.
The only reason I agreed to rent the spare room in the first place is because Mikey said his cousin’s “college buddy or whatever” needed a place fast, and he swore up and down this guy was alright. Some fresh-out-of-law-school kid with his first big-boy job.
My house is only a block from the subway line that shoots straight downtown—something the real estate lady kept yapping about like it was gold. I just shrugged and told her I didn’t give a shit. I don’t go downtown. I wanted this place because the old owner was a bike guy who’d built a garage damn near as big as the house itself. That’s what sold me.
But, Mikey’s good people, even if he’s loud at fuck and never shuts up. And extra cash is always useful. As long as the guy doesn’t bring loud assholes home and remembers to clean up after himself, I don’t care who sleeps down the hall.
Still. Khakis. To move boxes.
I shift in the chair, eyes flicking back to the Mustang’s engine block spread out in pieces across my garage floor. The fucker still isn’t running right and I can’t figure out why. That’s why I’m sitting here smoking instead of helping my new roommate haul his fancy shit inside. Thinking. Smoking helps me think.
It’s almost twilight now, the sky bleeding orange and purple over the neighbor’s roof. I’m halfway through the pack of Marlboros when Oliver finally hands the movers some cash and tells them, “Thanks, fellas!” in this cheerful, polished voice that makes my teeth itch.
Jesus Christ. He sounds like a suburban dad who drives a minivan and wants to chat about lawn fertilizer.
He turns, shoving his hands into his pockets, and walks straight toward the garage. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from the work, but he still looks put-together. Annoyingly so.
“I was going to order something for dinner,” he says, stopping a few feet away like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to step into my garage without permission. “You want in?”
I pause with the cigarette dangling from my hand and blow out a slow, lazy stream of smoke.
My eyes drag over him again—those pressed khakis, the rolled-up oxford sleeves showing off forearms that look stronger than they have any right to, that stupid perfect crease down the front of his pants. Christ, how does he look this good after moving furniture all day?
“Whatcha getting?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“No idea.” He gives me this smile—half sheepish, half hopeful. “Was hoping you’d tell me what’s good around here.”
“Fuck if I know,” I mutter, tapping ash from the cigarette onto the concrete floor.
Truth is, I don’t order out much. I make decent money as a mechanic—could afford steak dinners and fancy shit if I wanted—but old habits die screaming. When you grow up never knowing if there’ll be food for dinner or if the lights are getting shut off, you hoard every dollar. “Hang on.”
I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Jimmy. The reply comes back almost instantly with a list of places. I hold the phone out to him. “This guy’s on a first-name basis with every restaurant in a ten-block radius.”
Oliver takes it with another one of those easy smiles, studies the screen, copies down a couple numbers, and hands the phone back. “Thanks!”
I just nod and take another long drag, watching the smoke curl up into the darkening sky.
He frowns a little, brow creasing. “Smoking’s unhealthy, you know.”
“No shit,” I say, exhaling right toward the garage ceiling. The words come out sharper than I intend, edged with that old defensiveness I can never quite kill. “So’s not minding your own fucking business.”
His eyes widen for a second, and I tense up, shoulders tightening, waiting for the pushback. Waiting for the rich-boy attitude to finally show itself. Guys like him usually don’t like being talked to like that.
Instead, he laughs—a warm, genuine chuckle that surprises the hell out of me. He shakes his head, still grinning. “I withdraw my comment, your honor.”
I can’t help it; a grin tugs at my own mouth. “I only smoke out here, anyway.”
He nods, still smiling, then glances down at his phone. “Let’s try pizza. You have a preference for toppings?”
“No vegetables.”
“A man of refinement, I see,” he jokes, fingers already flying across the screen. “Meat lovers, extra dipping sauce,” he murmurs, almost too quiet for me to catch.
He nods to himself, satisfied, then shoves the phone back into his pocket and looks up. “I was gonna jump in the shower. Do you mind watching out for the pizza when it gets here?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Cool.” He pulls a twenty out of his wallet and holds it out to me. I stare at it for a second, then back up at his face.
“Tip for the driver,” he explains, folding his wallet shut. “Never pay a tip with a card. Owners can skim it.”
I can’t hide the surprise that flashes across my face.
“What?” he asks.
“Kinda figured you’d be on the side of big business or something.”
“I’m on the side of the people actually doing the work,” he says, and there’s a slight bite in his tone now, like I’ve hit a nerve. “They should get the money.”
I nod slowly and shove the twenty into my pocket. “I’ll bring it in when it gets here.”
“Thanks.” He gives me one last nod, then turns and strides back toward the house, shoulders straight, that perfect crease still somehow holding in his khakis.
Fuck.
I sit there in the growing dark, cigarette burning down between my fingers, the Mustang’s engine parts scattered around me.
I think I might actually wanna be friends with this guy.
And that?
That’s gonna be fucking inconvenient.
