Take a good look at yourself, asshole. “I’m not some spoiled brat who regularly trashes cars. I’ve had her since I was seventeen. And what the hell is wrong with being from San Francisco?”
“Because you’re all entitled jerks,” he says in a louder voice. “I’m willing to help you, but you’re not getting off easy.”
Wow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means stop whining and take my punishment, or go somewhere else.”
Take your punishment.
A wild image of my naked body splayed over Gage’s lap, his rough palm striking my ass, burns in my mind.
Oh my God, how hot would that be?
No, another voice says. You’re a feminist. Jesus! This man is beyond inappropriate.
I release his arm as though burned. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Yes. Better.
“I think I’m the owner, and I do whatever the hell I want.”
“That doesn’t excuse sexual harassment!”
The anger radiating from Gage’s body cools as a look of extreme shock hits his face. Then it cracks with an evil grin. “I was thinking of giving you a shitty loaner car. What did you think I meant?”
Oh.
I can feel the seconds ticking into eons as my head fills with the sound of my heartbeat, resolutely drowning out my reply. “Nothing.”
The grin widens. “Now I’m curious. What sort of punishment were you imagining?”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Did it involve one of us without clothes? Shit, I think I like your idea better.”
“You’re way out of line!”
“You’re the one with the dirty imagination.”
Heat blazing up my chest, I turn from his infuriating presence. “Go to Hell.”
Screw him. I’ll call a tow truck to drag me thirty miles away even though it’s a major inconvenience. Dealing with him isn’t worth it.
I stalk from him, diving my hand into my purse to grab my cell, only to find a black, lifeless screen. The parking lot echoes with my scream of frustration. The thought of asking him to borrow a phone to call another tow truck to take me thirty miles away from this jackass is too much to bear.
Soft laughter chimes behind my right ear, and I spin around. Gage is still there. Still shirtless and streaked with sweat and oil. And I want to slap him.
“I guess you’re stuck with me.”
Fucking great. “I need to borrow a phone.”
“No, you don’t. I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I’ll help you out. I can get you a decent price for its spare parts.”
“I’m not gutting my car.”
“Look, I’d be more than happy to take your money, but you’re better off just buying a new one.”
No way. “I can’t do that.”
“It’s probably going to run you at least four grand, sweetheart. I’ve never replaced an engine that was less than six, and that’s not even including labor.”
“I don’t care. I’ll pay it.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. It'll take a few weeks to fix.”
“Weeks?”
“Yeah, what do you think this is? Toyota dealership? We need all the parts shipped, and that’ll take weeks.”
Fuck. I’m not staying here for weeks. “There has to be a way to get it done faster.”
“You can call every shop in a fifty-mile radius. I guarantee you they’ll tell you the same thing. It’ll take time.” He smiles apologetically, his sun-kissed shoulders lifting in a shrug that makes me want to throttle him.
This sucks. I have a life back in San Francisco: a stressful job at my ad agency, and an ex-fiancé I have to deal with. I can’t just leave for weeks.
But that’s exactly what I did, wasn’t it? I just left. There were no words spoken between Mark and me. I saw what I saw, and then I left. My head feels like it’s been in a vice for the last few hours with all the unscreamed insults and rants rebounding in my brain. Over and over.
“I’ll throw something in the pot to sweeten the deal. I’ll knock off a couple hundred dollars off the price.”
“So, first, you want to punish me, now you’re bargaining for my business?”
“I’m not finished,” he growls. “I’ll take a few hundred off the total if you stop by now and then. Just wear that.”
He points at my chest. I look down at myself, and then back at him, hardly able to believe what I heard. “Are you insane?”
“Nope. Just a red-blooded American.”
The nerve of this man. “How the hell are you still in business?”
“I’m the only mechanic in town.”
“One of these days, someone’s going to open a rival auto shop and you’ll lose all your clientele for being a jerk.”
“Who'll do that? You?”
“Maybe I will, smartass.”
I’m annoyed with myself for noticing that when he smiles, dimples carve deeply into his cheeks. “Do we have a deal?”
It’s not like I have a damn choice. “Fine,” I grind out, hating myself.
“Good. I’ll just print out an estimate, and you can sign it.” He gives me a sly look. “Then I can give you a lift to wherever you’re staying.”
“I’ll just walk.” It’s not far, but I want him to think I’d rather walk a mile in pumps than take a ride with him.
Gage lets out a little laugh at the disgust in my voice, and then he pops the trunk to take out my suitcases. “Looks like you’re already packed for a long trip.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m just here for a friend’s wedding.”
He heaves my suitcases out of my trunk without a grunt. “The McConnellys. Yeah, I heard.”
“You don’t really seem like the kind of guy people gossip to.”
“Fair Oaks is a small town. Nothing much gets by me, San Francisco.”
The way he says San Francisco makes my muscles stiffen. What is his problem?
Gage leaves for a few minutes to print out the invoice, and then has me sign it on the hood of my car, the metal singeing the bottom of my arm. As I shake his hand, I beat down the tendrils of attraction slowly curling around my limbs.
“You know how they say it’s been a pleasure? Well, it hasn’t.”
Laughter bursts from Gage’s chest as he releases me. “I guess it’s all mine, then.”
Then a little push to both bags sends them moving. I hoist my purse on my shoulder and take both suitcases, my legs screaming as I wheel them away. Narrowed eyes watch me as I roll my luggage down the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. I know I’ve got to look insane—a city slicker rolling two huge bags for a weekend visit. No self-awareness. High-maintenance.
But perhaps for the first time in my life, I really don’t give a shit.
The Airbnb I rented is only a ten-minute walk. Redwoods as tall as buildings form a thick wall on the edge of town. Ranch-style houses are tucked away in the thickets of trees, small driveways paved for their cars. Bright sunlight filters through, pouring out holes poked between leaves.
I pass by a tiny strip mall with an honest-to-God general store. It seems fairly busy for a Friday afternoon. Plenty of stares are thrown my way as I weave around the little town, my heels like gunshots cracking through the air. This is the antithesis of my place in San Francisco, where I almost always hear the constant rumble of traffic. Here, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional voice.
I won’t last three days. I can almost hear the mechanic’s grating tone: Are your diamond slippers chafing, San Francisco?
I have no idea why Sophie would get married here. Like me, she grew up in the city. Maybe she saw a forest-themed wedding on Pinterest and decided she had to have one, too.
Fuck, I’ll have to tell her Mark isn’t coming, and she’ll want to know why.
Not now.
My arms ache with the effort of dragging both suitcases onto a road I recognize from the reservation. Walk down Main Stre
et for about five minutes, and then turn right onto Montana Avenue. It’s the third house on the left.
My ankle wobbles as I walk onto the gravel driveway toward the sprawling ranch house with a screened-in porch. There’s a huge garage. The door’s open to reveal a workshop with a half-finished motorcycle. There're bits of chrome lying everywhere. I pass it and glance into the windows, wondering what the owner is like. He said he’d stop by to introduce himself later.
I’m a little worried, to be honest. The reviews weren’t great, most of them complaining about the rudeness of the owner.
If I could, I’d give this place ZERO stars. The owner is unbelievably rude. The water in the shower got cold, and when I brought it to the owner’s attention, he told me to ‘suck it up.’
The only hotel in town was fully booked. Apparently this is a popular spot for people visiting Yosemite, and June happens to be a busy month.
Hopefully he’s not as much of an ass as the town’s mechanic.
The Airbnb is a small in-law unit attached to the house. I find the keys in the lock hanging on the door, which I unlock. It swings open into a studio apartment, the queen bed immediately on my right. There’s a kitchenette with black granite—just a single burner and a sink. The floor is reclaimed hardwood. It groans as I shift my weight. There’s a bathroom with a shower down the tiny hall, along with a closet. And that’s it. It’s a small, shitty little place. And I love it.
I love it for simply being the kind of lodgings my ex-fiancé would loathe. If it doesn’t have room service, he won’t stay there. Mark would take one look at this place, and he’d demand we’d stay at the Ahwahnee Lodge that costs eight hundred a night. I can just imagine him walking around, whining about the place: What sort of ‘hotel’ makes its guests sleep on polyester sheets? There’s no mini-bar. How are we going to feed ourselves? Oh my God. Look. There are peppermints on the pillows. Only amateurs do that. Let’s get out now.
He’d be embarrassed just to see me sprawled on the queen-sized bed.
I kick off my pumps the moment I’m inside, dragging my suitcases through the narrow threshold. The door shuts, and I sit on the mattress. Dread claws at my stomach as I slide my phone out of my purse.
My worried face reflects off the dark screen. I almost wish there weren’t electrical outlets here. But I plug the charger into the wall and connect it to my smartphone. It blooms to life, the green icon indicating I have ten text messages from Mark and at least five voicemails. My hand shakes as I select every single message and wipe them out without looking or listening. I’m hundreds of miles away from San Francisco. The sky won’t fall if I ignore him for a few days.
My suitcase rocks the floor as I tip it over, and then I unzip the bag and wade through the mountain of unnecessary shit I brought. A swimsuit, for God’s sake. Finally, I yank out a pair of flip-flops. There’s a tiny fridge, and the owner said I could use the barbecue in his backyard. I’m all for a tall glass of wine and a good steak right now, with some charred potatoes and asparagus.
The fresh smell of the trees hits my nose the moment I step back outside. It’s so damn quiet. I can hear my chest pulsing with air. The reeeez reeeez sound of grasshoppers echo like a chorus as I walk down the porch and onto the crunch of gravel. The silence wraps around me like a blanket, and the air is warm and humid as I head toward the grocery store. It’s peaceful.
There’s a man sitting in a plastic lawn chair, a cigar hanging precariously from his mouth. He wears a stained white tank top and khaki shorts. His tanned skin hangs from his arms like parchment paper, and he looks at me as though I’m an alien. I try smiling, but he stares at me blankly. Then he rises from his seat and bangs on his screen door, shouting inside.
“They’re letting hookers in Fair Oaks!”
A voice inside yells back as my cheeks burn. “What?”
“A hooker just walked by our house. Come—look!”
What the hell? I do not look like a prostitute. Not even close. Okay, the zipper on the tank top might be a little much, but I’m wearing a jacket. My shoulders are covered, for God’s sake.
As I hear his wife’s bewildered response, I quicken my pace toward the grocery. Their shouts ring behind me as I walk across the street, looking down at my clothes again.
The strip mall is bigger than I thought, wrapping around another block to the side. It’s all very quaint. Some of the signs for the shops look hand painted. I pass by a boutique with one that reads: Chocolate Covered Gifts and Things. Peering inside, I see a narrow shoebox of a store. The walls and shelves are covered with chocolate bars, and there are vintage lunch boxes sitting at the top. I head toward the grocery store and sigh as the air-conditioning chills my hands.
Damn. I’ve never seen a grocery store so empty. There are only a few people milling around with shopping basket. I throw a box of strawberries in my basket and grab the most expensive bottle of Pinot. It doesn’t take me long to get the rest of my supplies: steak, coffee, potatoes, and carrots. Then I walk toward the front of the store, where there’s a small commotion.
A man wearing boat shoes, a white polo, and khakis holds a stack of newspapers. He hands a copy to every person in line for the cash register.
“Thank you so much, George!” An older woman clutches the paper to her chest.
Everyone seems to know him—and even weirder—they all seem like they’re best friends. I walk in line behind them, and the be-speckled man in khakis turns his attention to me, eyes widening. He has a beak-like mouth and milky skin that almost looks translucent. Black, curly hair sits on his head in a fluffy column. Two watery dark eyes blink at me, obscured by his glasses.
“You must be Gage’s new customer! The one who’s in town for the wedding?”
“Yeah—wow. How did you know?”
His thin face widens with a warm smile. “Word travels fast. Are you staying in town for long?”
“Um—just for the wedding, but I might stay longer.”
“I heard your car will take a few weeks to be repaired.”
Sighing, I adjust my basket to my side. “Yeah. There's a chance I'll be here for a while.”
“Perfect! Well, I’m George. It’s wonderful to meet you. Always nice to see someone new in town.”
“I’m Olivia,” I say after clearing my throat. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hopefully your car won’t take too long to fix. I know dealing with Gage can be—ah—challenging.”
“Well, he’s not the warmest person in the world.”
“Just don’t take his attitude personally. He doesn’t have a lot of friends because he treats everyone the same way.”
“Why is he such a jerk?”
A sad smile curves into his cheeks. “I can’t speak for him, but he’s had a rough go at life.”
So the rugged mechanic has an angsty past? I’m almost curious enough to ask, but it feels wrong to pry.
I’m saved the indecision of asking more about him when George slides a newspaper off his stack and hands it to me.
“This is my weekly newsletter. Feel free to flip through it!”
My eyes widen as I take in the bold headline: ILLUMINATI IN YOSEMITE: AN EXPOSÉ. Underneath is a black-and-white photo of a forest and a badly photoshopped Illuminati symbol, hovering in the sky. Similar insane headlines are littered throughout the paper, GOVERNMENT MIND CONTROL PESTICIDES and KGB AGENTS AMONG US.
“Uh, is this a joke?”
Given the fervor shining from George’s eyes, it’s definitely not. He laughs and seems to take it in stride. “It’s no joke. My newspaper has the most subscribers in Fair Oaks. The only one that comes close is Mary Weather’s birdwatching newsletter.” A shadow descends over his features as he twists his thumbs. Damn that Mary Weather and her pesky competition.
What the hell am I supposed to say to Illuminati in Yosemite? Biting back a grin, I look at him. “Wow. Well, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Olivia. Don’t forget my wife’s weekly crockpot re
cipe. It’s on the last page! It’s peach cobbler.”
A conspiracy theorist newsletter with a recipe section. I try not to laugh as George waves at me and approaches other customers. At the very least, it’ll be interesting reading.
An older woman in line leans toward me. “Don’t mind George. He’s eccentric but harmless. I’m Trudy, by the way.”
Her pruned hand feels like soft leather as I take it. “I’m Olivia. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t think he was…” A complete psycho? Dangerous? I trail off, but she nods.
She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “Everybody in town subscribes to his newsletter to get his wife’s crockpot recipes. She makes the best chili. Wins every year at the chili cook-off, and it’s been six years in a row, now. I’m hoping one of these days she’ll slip and reveal one of her secrets.”
Another voice down the line chimes in. “I read it because I like her recipes.”
“Everyone does.” Trudy glares at the man behind us who spoke up.
“Does he know everyone reads the newsletter for the recipes only?”
“God, no! The poor dear. It would hurt his feelings.” She turns around when the line moves, and I tuck the newspaper in my purse.
What a quirky little town. They even have their own conspiracy theorist. I watch as the cashier greets every customer by their first name. It takes about ten minutes for me to get to the register with all the chitchat and how-are-yous. Fair Oaks couldn’t be more different from the hustle and bustle of San Francisco. I couldn’t even tell you my neighbors’ names. And I’ve been living in that building for over a year. With Mark. A chill spider-crawls down my spine as I think of my phone on the nightstand, blazing with a million text messages.
The moment I stepped inside our apartment and heard a soft giggle, I knew. And yet I climbed those steps anyway. They left a trail of clothing on their way to our bedroom. I saw tangled limbs. Smelled the stench of sex—another woman’s perfume all over my sheets. Then I turned on my heel, picked up the suitcases I’d already packed, and left. They didn’t even notice me.
And you know what I felt?
All I could think about was the social media project at work for a celebrity’s shoe line. I thought about the drive here. I thought about a stubborn spot that just wouldn’t wash out of my jeans. I screamed my head off in the car to Queen, but I didn’t shed a damn tear. And I knew I never would.
The Roommate Arrangement Page 51