Won't Miss You: A Brother's Best Friend Romance (We Shouldn't Book 4)

by Lilian Monroe

  I’ve needed to save every penny to make sure Lucy had what she needed, and to start making a plan to provide for her and her son. A new vehicle just didn’t seem like a priority.

  As my car whines, though, I’m starting to think that was a mistake. I was supposed to leave this car behind for Lucy when I went back down to Houston in six weeks’ time. The car won’t be much use to my sister if it doesn’t start.

  Glancing over at the mechanic standing next to my window, I school my features to try to hide my embarrassment.

  Benji’s lips are curled into an insolent smirk. I know the kind. I’ve seen it before, every time someone finds out my last name. My father has a reputation as a shrewd businessman who’ll stop at nothing to close a deal. He inherited the oil and gas business from his father, and his cutthroat attitude is what helped the business grow to the empire it is today. Everyone thinks I’m the same.

  This mechanic obviously does, too. I can’t blame him. I walked in here with the deed to this garage, waving it in his face and demanding to see my brother.

  Maybe my father and I aren’t so different, after all.

  But I’m here for a reason, and I’m not going to let some disgruntled employee get in the way of me helping my family.

  Still, when my eyes move to take in Benji’s, my stomach clenches. There’s something about him that reaches deep into my body and shakes me awake. Makes me feel like I’ve been missing something in all the years I’ve been on this earth.

  Maybe it’s the messy hair. The chiseled jaw. The grease rag hanging out of his pocket. Maybe it’s the rough, broad hands that drum on his big biceps when he crosses his arms. He’s all man. Nothing at all like the sniveling, trust-fund suitors my parents try to parade in front of me.

  Benji is real.

  And he hates me.

  Can I blame him?

  The mechanic arches an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on mine as I move to open the door. When he steps back, my eyes drift down to his broad chest, where a little sprout of blond chest hair pokes out above his work uniform.

  No, he’s not like the guys I usually see.

  He’s rough and dirty—in a good way. As I open the door and step out of the car, I allow myself to stare. Benji’s coveralls are tight across his chest, the little badge with his name bright white against the dirty, navy fabric. He’s got shaggy, dark blond hair, and a smudge of grease across his cheek. I catch myself thinking I like it.

  I usually date the clean-cut kind of guys. The ones my parents pick for me, in their plush, corporate offices or high-society garden parties. The ones who crawl up my father’s ass and die there. The ones who bring luxury cars to be fixed—not the ones who actually fix them.

  If I’d had a choice, I would’ve run away with Sawyer. I would’ve gone through with our plan to get away from the family business. I never in a million years would have accepted my father’s job offer. I would have done it the hard way with Sawyer. Started our own landscape architecture business, just like we talked about.

  Away from the money, from the overbearing parents, from the reputation.

  But what Sawyer doesn’t get is I didn’t have a choice. He’s never understood that. Never even tried. He thought I was a flake, a backstabber, a fleck of dirty pond scum.

  I. Had. No. Choice.

  Sawyer left in a huff with silly, unrealistic ideas about what life should be like, and he didn’t stop to think about what life really is.

  Me?

  My feet are firmly planted in the real world. I know that my sister needs me. My nephew needs me. I’m the only one who can make sure she and her son, Roman, have what they need.

  When Lucy got pregnant at seventeen, I knew my parents wouldn’t approve. I knew they’d kick her out. The only way I could keep food on her table was by staying in the soul-sucking, money-hungry world my parents built. With their job offer and way-above-average salary, I could make money and take care of Lucy.

  It was a choice, and I still think I made the right one.

  She needs money. Her kid needs money. And that means I need to earn it.

  I, unlike my brother, have realistic values. Once Lucy got pregnant, I couldn’t leave. Call me a flake, a lying, weak Machiavelli, but I stand by what I did. The end justifies the means.

  The end, in my case, is a sister with a roof over her head and a nephew with a decent shot at a good life.

  Coming to Woodvale and buying up this garage is an olive branch. A way for me to provide for Sawyer, too. A way to stitch this broken family back together again, because even if Sawyer abandoned us, I’ll never abandon him.

  He might hate me, but I still believe that once he knows the truth about what happened, he’ll forgive me.

  He has to.

  But judging on Benji’s reception, that olive branch is currently being doused in gasoline, lit on fire, and thrown back in my face.

  I square off in front of the mechanic, jutting my chin out and forcing myself to meet his gaze. Baby blue, with little specks of green. His eyes are deep as the ocean and just as captivating.

  Benji is the opposite of what my parents would like. He works with his hands, and he’s proud of it. He doesn’t like the fact that I’m a rich girl from the big city entering his domain.

  But the twisted, dark part of me likes the heat of his gaze right now. It snakes through my body, brushing against the base of my spine and lighting my nerve endings on fire.

  Be mad, I want to scream. Hate me.

  Hatred is so much better than the false flattery I have to endure back home. At least it’s honest.

  He huffs a breath out, glancing at the luxury vehicle behind me. The contempt is written all over his face.

  I wish this wasn’t the way things were, either, I want to tell him. I only bought this place because my duty to my sister forced me to change my life plans. I’m here because I refuse to give up on her, on my nephew, and on Sawyer. I refuse to let my family disintegrate.

  I have to be here, in this dirty garage, with a mechanic who hates me, because I care more about Lucy and Sawyer than I do about myself.

  So, I’m stuck in this small town with nothing to do but have angry staring contests with a hot grease monkey.

  Such is life.

  It could be worse.

  Benji arches an eyebrow. “I’m guessing that wasn’t quite the dramatic exit you were hoping for.”

  “Can you fix it?” I snap.

  I don’t mean to be so short with him. I like the way Benji stares at me. He has sharp eyes and full lips. A strand of hair falls across his face, and he doesn’t bother to push it back. Neither of us moves.

  “You’re used to people doing what you say, aren’t you?” Benji’s tone is colder than it was a second ago.

  It’s like a switch flicks, and he’s stone-faced. I know what he sees in me. He thinks I’m just some rich heiress from the big city, here to mess his life up. He thinks I have a sense of superiority just because I was born into money. He thinks he’s morally better than me because he has to earn his crust.

  He doesn’t know what I’ve been through. He doesn’t know what I’ve done for my sister. For Sawyer. For everyone in my family. The sacrifices I’ve made—and ones I still make every day. He doesn’t know a damn thing about me, and he has no right to make me feel small.

  I straighten myself up, jutting my chin out at him.

  “I expect employees to do their job.”

  “I’m going to need to see that famous paperwork,” he says, widening his stance. “You might have to un-shove it from your ass, though. As it is now, I don’t believe you bought this place at all.”

  My eyes drift down to his biceps and the fabric that’s pulled tight across them. I snap my gaze back up to his face, not wanting to entertain the thoughts that are threatening to invade my brain.

  Like what that chest looks like without clothes on, for example.

  I mean, fine. Benji has a kind of rough sex appeal. He’s got this attitude and he’s looking at
me with a bit of a snarl on his face. I can tell he doesn’t like me.

  Why is that so hot?

  Fire licks the edges of my stomach, roaring hotter as Benji takes a step toward me. I try to swallow my feelings down, ignoring the heat firing in my veins. The mechanic steps toward me, his chest nearly brushing against mine. His blue eyes gleam, and a part of me melts at the sight.

  He smells like grease—but there’s something else. Worn wood and leather. Sandalwood and musk. Man. I turn my head away from him, not wanting to acknowledge the heat burning in the pit of my stomach.

  I watch Benji lean down over the driver’s seat and pop the hood of the car. My eyes drift to his ass. Apparently, coveralls do something for me, because I can’t look away.

  Clearing my throat, I cross my arms and glance around the garage.

  I don’t know the first thing about cars. I know how to run a business, sure, but I don’t belong here. If only Sawyer had stayed, I could have told him what was going on. I could have extended that olive branch and explained what happened three years ago.

  But no. He ran away. Again. And once again, I’m left holding the bag. I’m the bad guy.

  Benji looks under the hood, then glances at me. “I’ve got some jumper cables. Might just be your battery. You’re not supposed to leave your lights on overnight.”

  He says it so casually, so off-handedly, that I almost feel like I’m back in my father’s offices. I’m used to getting talked down to by stuffy, gray-haired executives. I’m used to being underestimated—but it never fails to make my blood boil.

  I’m his boss, whether he wants to believe it or not. I own this place, and I don’t like being spoken to like I’m some sort of bumbling idiot.

  I grind my teeth, shooting daggers at him. “I did not leave the lights on.”

  Benji shrugs, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of gum. He extends the pack of gum to me, arching an eyebrow.

  I just stare at him until he pulls it away.

  “Suit yourself,” he says, putting a piece in his mouth. I watch him amble toward the other side of the garage, where he grabs a few jumper cables off the wall. With his other hand, he takes a battery off a shelf and heads back toward me.

  I feel useless. I watch him hook the jumper cables up to the battery in my car and then to the good battery on the floor. He walks toward me, his big, broad body dominating over mine.

  Extending his hand toward me, he arches an eyebrow.

  I don’t know what he wants. Is this some sort of peace offering? Did he have a change of heart? I stare at him for a second, slowly reaching my hand out to shake his. The minute our palms touch, a sizzle of electricity sparks up my arm. I clench my thighs together, feeling my blush deepen.

  Benji stares at me as we shake hands, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

  “That’s very nice of you,” he says slowly. “But I only wanted your keys.”

  Redness rises up my neck as I snatch my hand away. I clear my throat, digging through my purse for my keys. I can’t even meet his eye as I give the keychain to him, turning my back and wandering farther into the garage.

  I hear the sound of my car engine struggling to turn over, and I try my best to ignore it. My face is red. Blood rushes to my cheeks, making the tips of my ears burn. My heart is stuttering, and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I can’t stand Benji’s insolent stare, or the way he makes my body burn up.

  He has no right to make me feel that way. None.

  He. Doesn’t. Know. Me.

  I walk toward the wall and look at a couple of pictures hanging near the office. When I see Benji’s arm slung around my brother’s shoulders, both of them laughing, my heart tugs. I stare at my brother’s laughing face, wondering when I last saw him looking like that.

  Decades probably. I haven’t seen him laugh like that since we were kids.

  He’ll understand, once I tell him the truth about what happened. About Lucy. When he meets his nephew. He’ll get it.

  He has to. Doesn’t he? He won’t turn his back on us, will he?

  My car still won’t start, but I can’t turn around to look. My eyes fill with tears as I stare at the photo. My throat is tight, and I can hardly see through the blurriness in my gaze.

  I put a hand to my chest, feeling hurt and conflicted and angry—and I’m not even sure why.

  He left. Sawyer just up and took off without looking back. No phone call. No postcard. Nothing. Not one word from him for three and a half years. It took four private investigators—and more money than I could spare—to find him here.

  He didn’t stick around long enough to find out Lucy was pregnant. The instant he learned I’d accepted a job with our father—a job that had first been offered to him, mind you—he took off. Gone.

  I’ve spent three years looking for him, hoping I could explain.

  Benji’s voice makes me jump when he speaks, only a foot or two away from me. “It’s not the battery,” he says. “I can have a look at it this afternoon, but I probably won’t be able to fix it for a while. We don’t keep Aston Martin parts in stock. For obvious reasons.”

  I wipe my eyes as subtly as I can, clearing my throat and nodding as I turn to face him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll rent a car. I should go to the hotel and check in.”

  Benji’s face softens ever so slightly as he watches me. His eyes flick to the picture behind me and understanding flits across his face. He jerks his chin toward it.

  “We have a yearly charity run in Woodvale,” he explains. “The garage put a team together. Sawyer organized it.”

  I nod, my throat tight. “He always loved running.” I don’t tell him that the charity run is how we found Sawyer in the first place. His name and photo were printed in the local newspaper, and it was the first time in three and a half years I’d seen any evidence that he was still alive.

  “It was fun.” Benji’s eyes search mine.

  I point at the picture. “You used to have long hair.” In the image, Benji has a low bun tied at the nape of his neck.

  The mechanic chuckles, nodding. “Chopped it off a couple of months ago. Kind of miss it.”

  He hands me my keys, our fingers brushing as he drops them into my hand. Instead of walking away from me, though, he hesitates.

  “Come on,” he says softly, his voice nothing but a low growl. “I’ll drive you to wherever you were going. The hotel?”

  “It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’ll get a taxi.”

  “Rae.” A growl.

  He knows my name.

  I want him to say it again. Embers burn in my blood as I drag my eyes up his muscular body—all the way up to his searching eyes.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  It’s not a question. It’s a command.

  Usually, I’d puff my chest up and set my jaw. I’d tell him to go screw himself and brush past him, finding my own way in the world—but right now, I can’t quite bring myself to do that.

  Maybe it’s Benji’s soft, blue eyes. Maybe it’s the way he talked about Sawyer. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s offering to be nice, and who am I to refuse? Wasn’t I just thinking something about olive branches?

  Whatever the reason, I gulp down my hesitations and give him a slight nod. “Okay.”

  3

  Benji

  Rae Montgomery smells like heaven. Her scent wraps around me when we get into my truck, making my pulse thrum and my cock harden.

  Not good.

  Half an hour ago, I was ready to rip her head off. Now I’ve got wood?

  She clicks her seat belt into place, keeping her eyes off me. I watch her swallow, her throat moving as her lips pinch. The line of her jaw sweeps back to her long, graceful neck, and I hate how much I’m attracted to her.

  Spawn of the devil, remember? The worst of the worst. Something, something, Hitler.

  But when I’m sitting right next to her, with her sweet aroma and her kissa
ble lips, she doesn’t seem so bad. When I saw her looking at that picture of Sawyer, I swear I saw a chink in her Hellspawn Armor.

  Isn’t that what Sawyer warned me about, though? She’s a hypocrite and a master manipulator.

  Meeting my gaze, she arches a brow. “Well? Are we just going to sit in this bucket of rust for the rest of eternity, or are you going to drive me to my hotel?”

  Her words jam a hot poker in my chest, and anger flares.

  Right. Not an angel. Hot as hell, because that’s where she comes from.

  I clear my throat and turn the ignition, shifting in my seat and hoping she doesn’t see the bulge in my pants. Being attracted to her is totally out of the question. Completely forbidden. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  It’s that twisted, broken part of me that craves her. The side of me that likes following through on bad ideas. The darkness that creeps up on me in the dead of night.

  That’s the part of me that wants to fuck Rae Montgomery into the next century.

  Not the good part. The honorable part. The one that puts family and friends first, that takes care of my little sister, even though she’s old enough to take care of herself.

  That decent side of me? Nowhere to be seen. The only thing in my head right now is a deep, throbbing hunger—and Rae Montgomery looks pretty fucking delicious.

  Sawyer would fucking kill me if I admitted it. Rip my head clean off my shoulders.

  Ignoring the steel in my pants, I crank the radio up and drive off the garage lot. Rae keeps her head turned away from me, but her fingers drum on her designer jeans to the beat of the song—at least, I assume they’re designer jeans. They fit like they were made for her.

  We don’t speak. What is there to say?

  She’s here, on my turf, for reasons unknown. She—or her parents, more likely—bought out the one thing that has felt like home, and I know Sawyer won’t be happy to hear she’s in town for the foreseeable future.