by LK Farlow
I can tell she’s gearing up to tell me off, but Kasey arrives with our food before she can. Thank God; maybe after she eats, she’ll be more receptive to my plan.
Our heated conversation pauses as we dig into our meals. The fragile silent truce stays in place until the bill is settled and we’re in my truck. But as soon as I shift into gear, all bets are off, and Seraphine’s ready for war.
“Just who are you to tell me how to run my life?”
“Someone needs to. You’re running it into the ground.”
She glares. “Be that as it may, it’s my life. I can do whatever I want with it.”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“What?” she snarls.
“You sound like a child. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.” I turn onto the road her dad’s shop is on and gun it. Seraphine squeals as I slam on the brakes, bringing us to a jarring stop.
“What the fuck?” she hisses.
“No one else was on the road,” I say.
“There’s a speed limit for a reason, jackass.”
“But my truck can go fast, so...” I’m waiting for her to get my point, and judging from the way she huffs and throws herself back into the seat, she got it—loud and clear.
“Whatever. Why are we here?” The tremble in her voice doesn’t escape my notice. I know exactly how hard this is for her—I’ve been here before and wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Regardless, it has to be done.
“Figured we could ride out and check on everything, maybe make some decisions regarding your dad’s shop.”
“Do we have to?” She fidgets in her seat, looking every bit as pained as I feel.
I pull to a stop in front of the garage bays. “We’re already here; might as well.” The steadiness of my voice covers the wretchedness working its way through me. While I want to help her, and know she needs to do this, causing her even an iota of pain was not on my to-do list.
She unbuckles and throws open her door. “Fine.”
I follow behind her, waiting quietly while she fishes the key out of her purse. I knew coming here was going to be hard, but it may be more so than I anticipated. This shop is her dad’s life’s work. She practically grew up here. Seraphine was her dad’s pride and joy, but these cars, this business, it was his passion. One I know he passed onto her.
Even if she doesn’t openly show it, this big metal building means as much to her as it did to him.
Once inside, Seraphine hesitates. I don’t rush her. If she needs to stand in the pitch-black dark and gather herself, then that’s what we’ll do.
I can vividly recall how hard it was to sift through Imani’s things—especially her art studio. It was gut-wrenching to sell the space, to sell her pieces; it felt like I was giving little bits of her soul to the highest bidder.
Right as my eyes finally adjust to the dark, she flips the switch for the lights, nearly blinding us both. Bright fluorescent bulbs illuminate the garage, bathing the space in light. We’re both quiet at the sight before us.
Everything remains untouched. Tools are littered about, there’s a car on the lift, and at least two cars mid-restoration. It’s as though Dave went out for lunch and never returned.
I place a hand on the middle of her back, rubbing soothing circles. “It’s okay to cry, mariposita.”
No sooner than the words leave my lips, she’s full-out bawling.
“C’mere.” I spin her to face me and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. I rock us both back and forth, murmuring words of comfort as she lets it all out.
It probably makes me twisted, but some macho part of me wants to roar in triumph over the way she’s willing to be vulnerable with me. Seraphine’s this fascinating mixture of weakness and strength. She’s fragile, yet made of steel. She’s broken, yet a warrior—even if she doesn’t yet know it.
God knows how long passes before her tears dry and she pulls away from me. “I’m so sorr—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Do not apologize. This place is sacred to you and visiting it is hard.”
She sniffles as she nods. “Honestly, it’s surreal to be here. It literally looks like he left in the middle of the day—except instead of coming back, he…” She trails off as a fresh round of tears start.
“Why, Mateo? Why did he leave?”
I pull her back into my arms and press my lips to her temple. The move’s as instinctual as breathing. “Shh, mariposita. He didn’t want to leave you.”
“He clearly did,” she insists.
I spy a workbench and guide us to it, settling her in my lap. “You know deep down that’s not true. Your dad loved you. More than anything else, he loved you.”
“Then why did he leave?”
A million different answers race through my brain. People are always so quick to call those who end their own lives selfish, even though it’s rarely the case.
“Honestly? We may never know. But him ending his life in no way negates his love for you. You hung the moon for that man, Seraphine. I can’t begin to understand how alone and betrayed you must feel, but please don’t doubt your father’s love for you.”
She sighs and lays her head back against my chest. “It’s hard, though. Why would he leave if he loved me?”
“I can’t answer that. But I think… it was more about him than it ever was you.”
“You think so?”
“I really do.”
She shrugs noncommittally before shrugging out of my embrace and standing. “Everything’s the exact same,” she murmurs, “and yet totally different.”
I rise and follow behind her as she walks over to a jaw-dropping 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. The beast of a ride caught my eye the minute the lights came on, but it wasn’t the time.
She approaches it as if it’s a wild animal, cautious but curious. She circles it before trailing her fingers reverently over the trim.
“When did he get her?” I ask, tipping my chin toward the partially restored masterpiece.
“He’s had her for a while. Just got too sick to work on her.”
I drag my eyes over the fine lines of the body, loving every bit of it. She needs work, but she’s still a damn fine ride. “Damn.”
She shrugs as her gaze hones in on mine. Judging from the fierce look, she’s done reminiscing and ready to get down to business. “Why are we here?”
If she’s ready to do this, so am I. “We’re here because you need to figure out what you want to do with this place.”
Ignoring me, or maybe contemplating my words, Seraphine walks along the edges of the garage, taking in every inch of space.
She stops by every stall, every workstation, until she ends her circuit on the opposite side of the ‘Cuda from where she started. A frown mars her pretty features. “I don’t know, Mateo.”
Now’s the time to go for broke. Please let her have an open mind. “Sell it to me,” I say, leveling her with a pleading look over the hood of the ‘Cuda.
“Sell what?”
“All of this.” I throw my arms out wide. “The shop, the tools, the unfinished projects.”
She shakes her head, her previously down-turned lips now twisted up in a snarl. “No! No way. This is my dad’s legacy.”
I scoff in disbelief as I look around the space. “If you ignore it any longer, you’ll make a mockery of all his hard work, of his reputation, of his legacy.”
Seraphine lunges for me over the hood of the car, her palm splayed wide, itching to make contact with my cheek.
“Do not,” I growl, catching her wrist before she can connect. “Ever try to hit me.”
Tensions run high as she tries to free herself from my grip, but I tug her closer, causing her to lean fully over the hood. The position puts her luscious cleavage on display; it’s a fight to keep my eyes on hers, but now is not the time to check her out.
“Or what?” Her eyes harden as she glares at me, a defiant tilt to her chin. Seraphine wants her words to
have bite, but right now, she is all bark.
“Estás muy malcriada,” I mutter under my breath, which only serves to anger the little spitfire more.
“Excuse me? What did you just say?”
“I said you’re acting spoiled.” I drag my eyes over her as she tugs against my hold. “Like a child who did not get her way.” I release her wrist and round the hood of the car.
“I’m a grown-ass woman!” Seraphine fires back, all but stomping her foot.
“Then act like it!” I roar, advancing her until her back is pressed into the side of the car.
As I stare down at this fragile, broken girl, a grotesque mix of pity and hunger gnaws at me. Of the two, pity is safer; it is the only one I am willing to give any time to, because the hunger is a can of worms I have no intention of opening—ever.
“You claim you’re grown; you claim you want to honor your father’s legacy. You lie. You’re nothing but a scared, sad child, determined to run all you love into the ground.”
She sniffles, and my heart pinches. “I don’t want to be…”
Her soft, broken words turn the pinch into a pull. The kind of pull that leads experienced sailors to the depths, to their deaths. The kind of pull that inspires sonnets and songs and movies. The kind of pull I’m helpless to resist.
I skim the back of my hand over her tear-dampened cheek, wiping away the physical evidence of her sorrow. “Then don’t be, mariposita.”
She blinks her big brown eyes up at me. “H-how? How can I not be? I know you’re right. I’m ruining everything.”
The urge to trade my jeans and T-shirt for armor is strong as I pull her into a hug. “Let me help you. Let me buy this from you; I’m sure you could use the cash. I’ll keep your dad’s legacy intact.” I step back from her, looking down to gauge her reaction.
While her eyes are still watery, there’s a determined furrow in her brow. “On one condition,” she says, her tone daring me to deny her.
“What’s that?”
“Hire me.”
Chapter Nine
Seraphine
“Just go inside,” I mutter to myself as I pace back and forth on the sidewalk, passing the salon by for the fourth time. “They know you’re coming, woman up and go in!”
Even after my paltry pep-talk, I’m no closer to actually going in. “Why is this so hard?”
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, and my skin feels too tight. The mere thought of facing the women I’ve called my best friends—my only friends—for years has me ready to run home and never leave the safety of my bed ever again.
My stomach churns and my heart races as I finally gather the courage to approach the door. I reach for the handle—I can do this. Except before I can make contact, the salon door flies open and I yank my hand away, cradling it to my chest as though I touched a flame.
“Are you going to come in or keep pacing?” Azalea asks bluntly, morphing my anxiety to humiliation.
I shake my head and take a step back. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but my voice comes out mostly steady. “This was a bad idea.”
Azalea cocks her head to the side and steps fully out of the salon, allowing the door to close behind her. “Seraphine, what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, meaning it in more ways than one. “I’m just gonna—”
“Come inside and spill your guts?” Azalea links her arm with mine and escorts me into the salon. “Perfect idea!”
I slap a smile on my face and hope it looks more natural than it feels.
“Lookie who I found,” Azalea announces as we step onto the cutting floor.
“Hey, stranger!” Myla Rose sets her comb and shears down and rushes over to hug me. I study her when she pulls away; her eyes and smile are both wide and honest—she’s truly happy to see me.
This little kernel of knowledge loosens the knot in my chest a little.
“Hey, Myles.” I keep my voice soft. I feel like an outsider in a salon I worked in for years, and while I know it’s my doing, I don’t like the way I feel like a visitor in such a familiar place, especially one that once was an escape from all that was happening with Dad over the years. But now, in the wake of his death, it almost feels tarnished.
“We’ve missed you, you know?” she asks, hugging me again before picking up her comb and shears and resuming her haircut.
“I’ve missed y’all, too.” I keep my eyes downcast, trying to gather some of the fire I used to possess. These days, it seems only a certain hot-bodied mechanic can coax it out of me.
“Could’ve fooled—oof! Ouch!”
I look up in time to see Azalea rubbing her side. My best guess is Myla Rose elbowed her—the thought makes me grin. She’s a feisty little redhead, so I wouldn’t put bodily harm past her.
“Where’s Magnolia?” I ask, wrapping my arms around my midsection.
“She ran over to Dream Beans with Callista for a coffee run.”
“Who’s Callista?”
Myla Rose and Azalea exchange worried glances.
“Our receptionist,” Myles says slowly.
I try to swallow, but there’s a golf-ball sized lump in my throat preventing me from doing so. Instead, I nod and try not to cry. I knew they would replace me. I all but forced them to when I ghosted them. I should count myself lucky they’re all still willing to speak to me. I know all of this, but still, it stings.
The bell over the door rings, and my cousin walks in along with a beautiful woman who must be Callista. With flawless skin, chestnut hair, and big brown eyes—she’s stunning. And judging by the cheek-splitting smile she’s rocking, she’s nice, too.
Good, I think, nodding to myself. My girls need someone good, and if she’s it and they like her, then I do, too.
“Seraphine!” Magnolia squeals when she sees me. It’s so out of character for my soft, quiet cousin who hates loud noises that it completely catches me off guard. Even more so when she shoves her coffees into Azalea’s hands and runs over to me and wraps me in a tight embrace. “Oh my God, I’ve missed you!”
Once my stupor wears off, I return her embrace, holding the only family I have left on this earth tightly to me.
By the time we let go, we’re both teary-eyed and sniffling.
“You’re really here.” Her voice is tinged with a hint of awe.
“I am.”
“I haven’t heard your voice, seen your face, nothing in more than a month.”
“I know.” Worry lands in my gut like a lead weight. Is she angry with me? Will she ask me to leave? Maybe she doesn’t really want me here?
I lock my hands behind me and take a small step backward. My breathing accelerates as every imaginable worst-case scenario presents itself to me. I’m on the verge of bolting when Callista walks over to me.
“You must be Seraphine.”
I breathe in deeply and exhale before lifting my eyes to hers. “Yes.” My voice is barely audible.
“You’ve left me some mighty big shoes to fill. These ladies love you fierce.”
A smile works its way free at her words. How is it this stranger knew exactly what I needed to hear? “I love them, too.” This time my words are clear.
“I’m Callista.” She extends her hand toward me, and I shake it.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
With our introductions out of the way, Magnolia passes me one of the many cups she and Callista returned with. I take a long pull from the straw, letting my tastebuds revel in the cool, toffee-coffee goodness.
Myla Rose finishes up her client and flips the sign to “closed” once she leaves. “Now, let’s talk about what you’ve been up to.”
Azalea smirks. “You know, other than ghosting us.”
Guilt prickles again, but I push it to the back burner and fill my friends in on the disaster-zone that is my life.
“Uh, well, I sold Dad’s shop.”
“What? Why? To who?” Myla Rose demands, rapid-fire.
“It’s a long story.” I fidget in my seat under the weight of their stares. “But Mateo bought it.”
“Reyes? Mateo Reyes?” Magnolia asks.
“Yup. And he hired me, to you know, help out and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?” Azalea asks as she wags her brows, infusing the moment with some much-needed humor.
We talk a little more, and I learn Callista recently moved to Dogwood for a fresh start. She’s a single mom to toddler-aged twins, a recent divorcee, and was in the middle of cosmetology school when her ex-husband walked out. So she’s basically perfect for them.
Once all of our catching up is out of the way, Magnolia guides me to her chair. “What are we doing with your hair?”
I shrug and give her carte blanche. Four hours later, I walk out with subtle caramel highlights and about six inches off the ends, leaving it level with my breasts.
They say a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life—here’s to hoping like hell that’s true.
Chapter Ten
Mateo
“Are we really going to keep doing this?” Seraphine asks, wiping the sweat from her brow while simultaneously trying to kill me with her glare alone.
“Sí.” I lean back against the steel cabinet.
She’s so over my little quizzes that she’s practically snarling at me. But I don’t care. I need to know if she grew up around cars, or if she actually knows cars before we open and I truly put her to work.
Which is why ten of the last fourteen days have been spent cataloging every item in the garage to get ready for the relaunch. I won’t lie—she seems to know her stuff. But I need to be sure before I turn her loose in here.
“Fine,” she grits out, nodding her head toward her dad’s—I mean my—‘Cuda. “That beautiful beast is one of only six-hundred-and-fifty-two produced that year. It’s got a 440-six pack with an aluminum Edelbrock manifold topped by three 2300 series carb. A lot of people wanted the 426 Hemi, but the automatic 440 was actually faster.”