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“You’ve got an intermittent rattle? Swing by my garage on State Street. I can put your BMW on the lift and take a look for you.”
She blinked, then flushed. “That’s a nice offer, but my bank account won’t support a mechanic’s bill, and I’m already in your debt for the mountain of menstrual products you left on my doorstep. I was taught to live within my means, you know?”
Ryker nodded. He remembered all too well the feeling of having no funds.
Bryce lifted her forearms off the car’s passenger window, making as if to say goodbye. In desperation, Ryker searched for a way to prolong their discussion.
“Mom taught us the same. ‘Neither a borrower, nor a lender be’ is one of her favorite sayings,” Ryker blurted, and although it went against every fiber of his Marine training, he cracked open a little of his personal diary. “But if it weren’t for Drake lending me money to start up my garage, I don’t know where I’d be right now. See, I accidentally screwed up my credit when I was nineteen.”
Bryce leaned in, those piercing blue-gray eyes interested. “Really? How?”
“I’d gotten a credit card to help cover expenses to outfit my first apartment, but when I got deployed to Afghanistan, I never thought about setting up a system for automatic payments. After I returned, I found out I was in collections. While I paid off that debt, it left a mark on my credit. Banks refused to underwrite a small-business loan, let alone a mortgage.” Ryker couldn’t believe he was spilling his guts like this. But her open, rapt expression acted like lubrication to his seldom-used conversational skills, and he was unable to stem the flow of words. “Drake took out a mortgage in his name for me and lent me the start-up funds for State Street Garage. I’ve been rebuilding my credit these past years, and soon I’ll be able strike out on my own, without my brother’s backing. Maybe do something different.”
She nodded. “There’s nothing like the feeling of charting your own life’s road trip.” She barked a humorous laugh. “I miss feeling like I was winning in this world.”
When Bryce’s expression went all lost and vulnerable, Ryker couldn’t help himself. He jumped in.
“Winning is a matter of perspective. Sure, you’ve had a change of plans. But when you change lanes in a race, you appear to lose ground, when all it takes is being on the low side of the curve to be back on top. Battling grief is tough—I should know. It takes time, and requires you to occasionally accept a boost from others.” Ryker saw her face close off. Figuring she wasn’t likely to accept his charity with her car—she barely knew him—he decided to go for another tactic. “I have a proposal. Bring your car over tonight after five, and I’ll take a look. See if I can fix it. In exchange, you bring me a quart of soup. Deal?”
“But I’ll have the girls with me, and they’re…a lot.”
Ryker squinted an eye. “So? Bring them. I’ll make sure the road flares are all safely tucked away.”
She snorted but didn’t smile. Her gaze flicked over everything in his truck—the soup container, crumbs on his shirt from the baguette, his hands attempting not to throttle the steering wheel in nervous anticipation.
Her lips pinched, then she pushed out a gust of breath.
“My bank account can’t argue with that math.” Her agreement was reluctant. “Deal. As long as I can bring you over a homemade dinner in addition to the soup.”
She stuck out her hand, and he shook it, surprised by the steely strength of her grip.
“I can’t wait to see what tops a sexy ‘smack in the ass’ soup.” He raised his eyebrow, the playful comment falling from his lips surprising even himself.
At last her expression brightened, and her lips twitched up in a smile.
“I’ll do my best to make it a ‘shout out my name when you finish’ sort of experience.”
***
Five hours later, a knock came on the garage’s main door. When Ryker opened it to the blustery March evening, it was like inviting in a giggling, chatting whirlwind as Bryce and her nieces blew inside.
“Aunt Beamer made me leave my sword behind.” The littlest one, Addison, shoved her sisters out of the way to present him with a mighty scowl. She wore a purple, glittery tutu over a pair of neon pink leggings and a white shirt with a rainbow-sequined heart on it. Her wispy blond hair was barely held in a ponytail, and while her yellow wings were still attached to her back, one of them was bent and held together with a large safety pin. “I tol’ her pirates like you expect us to come with our own swords. Only, she said it wasn’t ’propriate.”
Before he replied, the girl he’d help pull out from under the grocery store shelves—Cecily—brushed by him, then stopped dead in her tracks. Dressed in dark jeans and a camouflage shirt, she stood in the center of his garage, next to the empty lift. Then she threw her arms out and spun in a circle, trampling on and stumbling over the untied laces of her Chuck Taylors as she cried out.
Ryker jumped, startled by the high-pitched scream. Was she hurt?
“What—”
“Don’t worry.” The oldest girl spoke over the screams. Her green eyes flicked a dismissive gaze at the garage, then at him, before turning her attention once more to her phone. “She’s taking in the dirt and grease, and feeling like she finally found the place where she belongs.”
Ryker blinked at this information relayed in a flat tone from the oldest girl—he recalled her name was June—who wore a black shirt with the sentenceWhat Would Wednesday Addams Do?written in gothic lettering on the front.
Bryce followed June inside, plucking the cell phone from her hands as they entered and giving her a look. June flushed an angry red. She slunk to the small café table and chairs next to the front end of the VW and plopped down, her expression an exaggerated sulk.
Bryce pocketed June’s cell phone, then boomed out, “Cici, volume off!”
The spinning girl’s screech stopped as if her aunt had found a real-life mute button. Wobbling a little after the spin, she raced over, standing next to Addison, who had claimed Ryker’s right hand and was tugging him toward the pile of boxes in the corner.
