by Brynne Asher
At this point, my new friend is well past my YouTube knowledge of how to change a tire and I have no idea what he’s doing. The front of Stan’s car is jacked up and he’s pulling off the flat with little effort. Tossing it to the pavement, he reaches for the spare. “I’ve never heard anyone so obsessed with days of the week. No wonder you’re exhausted.”
I know for a fact he’s right, but I’m not about to admit it. “Maybe. Do you not keep a schedule?”
He keeps his eyes on his task as he speaks. “Work when I need to work, which is usually every day, and relax when I can. I just recently started sticking to a schedule. Can’t lie, even though it’s necessary, it can be shit.”
Finally, something I can agree with wholeheartedly. “Yes. It can be shit.”
At my last word, he looks up from where he’s crouched at the side of Stan’s car. He smiles, making his rugged face come alive and his eyes do that thing that’s very becoming on him.
“What?” I ask, wondering what he’s smiling at.
His smile shrinks back into a smirk. “It’s fun hearing the word shit come out of a pretty little thing like you.”
I frown. That’s completely sexist, not to mention, he doesn’t know the half of it. There are days I can’t think straight unless every other word is fuck.
But I’m not about to let him in on that.
“Anyway,” I try for a new subject, “thank you for stopping. You saved my white blouse since I was about to tackle this on my own. I’d like to get home to my kids and kiss them goodnight.”
“Well then.” He finishes tightening the bolts and stands, brushing his hands together. “Glad I saw you standing in the ditch and decided to stop. It’s pothole season. This happens a lot.”
“Pothole season?”
His face becomes serious. “Yeah, potholes’re everywhere from the snow. Water settles and expands when it freezes, making the asphalt crack. They don’t get them fixed very fast out here in the country. There was one a ways back, I’m sure it’s what blew your friend’s tire. You need to watch out for them.”
“Oh.” I sort of don’t know what to say. Not about the potholes, but about this strange man telling me to be careful. He looks like he really means it, too, not just some idle warning he’d offer in passing. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Hey.” His serious face morphs into a frown. “You hit your head? You’ve got a knot on your temple.”
I lift my hand and try not to wince when I touch it. “It’ll be fine. I didn’t hit it too hard.”
He gestures toward Stan. “Does he know you hurt yourself?”
I lower my voice since Stan is walking our way. “Yes, but I’m okay.”
I’ve had enough drama for the night—I just want to get home to Knox and Saylor. At least I can let Stephie off the hook so she can get home early. That is, right after I chastise her for talking me into this debacle in the first place and make her promise to never do it again.
“I cancelled the roadside service.” Stan appears in front of us. Looking at the fresh tire the stranger just changed for him, he notes, “That was fast.”
“Yes,” I agree and look up to the man who saved the day and warned me about pothole season. “It was. Thank you, again.”
“Not a problem.” He nods to Stan before looking back to me and raises a brow that screams sarcasm. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday, ma’am.”
Oh, he did not just ma’am me. The only people allowed to call me ma’am are in high school.
“It’s Keelie,” I remind him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats with a smirk.
I open my mouth to refute him again, but for the first time since five o’clock this afternoon, I’m grateful when Stan opens his, even though he’s rude when doing so. “Can we go now?”
I look at my phone and see it’s almost eight. If we leave now I can spend a little time with the kids and get back to my life. It’ll be a long walk through hell before I let Stephie set me up again.
Looking back to my tire-changing hero, I move to the passenger door. “Thank you for stopping.”
“She’s got a bump on her head,” my knight announces.
I stop and see my hero glaring at Stan.
“She said she was fine,” Stan responds.
“A knot on the head isn’t fine.”
“I took something and don’t even have a headache. It’ll go away in no time. I’d really like to get home.” I try to convince everyone I’m okay. I’ll be more than okay when I get back to my kids.
“Make sure someone keeps an eye on you,” he demands and looks back to Stan with a frown before leaving.
I get into Stan’s car and watch the man who saved my day stride to his truck, his long legs getting him there quickly and efficiently. I try not to stare even though it’s hard since his old jeans fit him perfectly—snug through the ass and thighs, loose over his work boots. Definitely not khakis with an ill-fitting, ugly sweater vest.
I’ve never been attracted to work boots before. Work boots have never been a blip on my radar.
Well, I guess after fourteen years, one’s tastes can change. Who knew?
Oh well. As the work boots in the truck pull away, I shrug that thought off. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not trying this dating thing again for a long, long time.
And silently—besides the soft rock music from the 90’s that’s been annoying me since five o’clock—Stan directs his car toward my old farmhouse where my kids are waiting for me. I’m ready to write off my first attempt at getting back into the game after more than a decade. I’ve decided the game sucks and I will be pleased as punch to sit on the sidelines. Others can go watch Netflix and fuck themselves for all I care.
*****
“You went on a date, Mommy?”
I sigh and snuggle into Saylor’s hair where I’m lying with her on the floor of Knox’s room. She’s got her own room, but for the last year and a half, she sleeps on a pallet she made in his. I’m lucky Knox is sweet and allows this, although deep down, I think he likes having her close.
“I went to dinner,” I answer.
Knox shifts in his bed and looks down at us. “Aunt Stephie said you went on a date.”
“Aunt Stephie is wrong,” I correct him. “I went to dinner with a friend of hers and we had a flat tire. The food wasn’t good and I had to stand in a ditch. Which reminds me, if you’re ever stranded on the side of the road, always stand off to the side, never close to the car. It’s safer that way.”
“Okay, mom,” Knox agrees immediately as he always does, but he’s a sponge. He takes in everything and remembers it all.
I’ve stopped pussy-footing around my kids like I once did. If I can prepare them for any eventuality, I will. When life hit us like a Mac truck, I learned my lesson. Pretending everything is licorice and butterflies will do them no good, especially when they need to pull their shit together like their life depends on it.
Of course, Saylor didn’t hear a thing I said and asks, “What did you eat?”
I sigh, wanting to put the day out of my head. “Salmon. It was dry.”
“Yucky.” She wiggles around in my arms and smiles. “You shudda gone to Brooklyn Brothers and had pizza.”
“I agree.” I smile and kiss her nose. “It’s late and you guys need to get to sleep.”
When I got home from the date from hell, I chewed Stephie’s ass. She was surprised because her husband, my brother-in-law, thought Stan was an okay guy. She felt bad about the bump on my head, but I told her what I told everyone else tonight—I’m fine.
Then we opened a bottle of wine and made fun of Stan’s outfit while the kids finished their movie. If nothing else, I can always count on Stephie to be snarky with me. It’s who we are.
I kiss Saylor one more time and pull myself off the floor to do the same to Knox. “Sleep tight, my loves.”
I get “You too, mommy” and “Goodnights” from both.
After tucking them in, I call for the behemoth
s. “Banner and Bella. Time for bed!”
I hear them come running, the lovable mutts we got for the kids when we moved in. As much as they shed and make a mess, I can’t help but love them. Their nails skid on the aged wood floors before they make the turn into Knox’s room.
“Settle down.” I give them a good rub down before they find their spots on the floor next to Saylor.
After more loves and goodnights, I finally flip off the light and go straight to my room.
This Saturday can’t end soon enough.
Chapter 2
Saturday Hater
Asa
“I should have never left. Three and a half years—I could’ve waited to move. This is all my fault.”
I sigh and rub my face roughly as I sit in the parking lot of my kids’ school, trying to convince my ex-wife that for the first time in a long time, I’ve got this. But unlike everything else in my life, when it comes to this I have not one fucking clue what I’m doing.
I try to sound convincing. “It’s not your fault, Danielle. She just turned fifteen and is trying to figure out who she is. You’ll see them in a few weeks. Until then, I’ve got this.”
After being divorced for thirteen years, we’ve found a way to set aside our differences for the kids. She’s been happily married for ten to a decent man who likes my kids. But when he got transferred to Los Angeles a few months back, my kids didn’t want to go. I couldn’t blame them. Levi’s a senior and has already committed to Johns Hopkins to play lacrosse. Emma’s a freshman and just turned fifteen last month. She all but threw a teenage girl fit when her mom told her they were moving across the country.
I’ve done my best over the last three years to spend quality time my adolescent children. Moving back to Virginia to work with Crew gave me the chance to do that.
But the game changed when Danielle’s husband was transferred and the kids didn’t want to go. It was my time to step up and I offered to buy a house in their school district so they could stay in Virginia instead of moving to California. They got to keep their school, friends, and everything they knew. But along with that, they got their dad full-time for the first time in a long while. We’ve been at it for four months.
It’s been interesting.
With Levi, I’ve done okay. Emma’s a different story.
Her grades have dropped, she’s withdrawn from her friends, and has become closed off from everyone. This has all happened since the move, so, of course, Danielle’s blaming herself. That still doesn’t mean Emma wouldn’t have gone through this anyway—I can’t imagine this is all because her mom moved. Right now, all Emma has is me, so we’re going to have to work through this shit together.
“You have to get her to talk, Asa. She can be bullheaded at times—not to mention her teenage hormones—but this behavior isn’t who she is. We have to figure it out sooner than later.” Danielle’s voice is anxious as she goes on, telling me what she’s told me a million times since she left.
I do my best to keep my patience. “I’m meeting with the counselor in a few minutes. If I have to, I’ll meet with every teacher and reach out to her old friends. I’ll let you know what I find, but you need to know I’ve got this. She’s my daughter, too. I’m not going to let her fuck up her life under my watch. I’ve cut my work in half so I’m available when she’s not in school. I’m even monitoring all activity on her phone, but so far, there’s nothing.”
I hear her sigh. “I know you’re trying. Levi tells me you’re there all the time and even trying to cook. I just miss them.”
“Call her tonight. I’ve gotta go or I’ll be late for my meeting.”
“Let me know what the counselor says,” Danielle demands, almost desperate.
I shake my head since I know she means well, but, as patient as I am, it’s starting to grate on my nerves. “I will.”
I hang up, not giving her another chance to vent or make further demands. Climbing out of my truck, I head for the main entrance of the high school and once I get through security, check in at the office.
“Asa Hollingsworth. I’m here to meet with Mrs. Lockhart about my daughter, Emerson.”
The secretary picks up her phone and gestures to the clipboard in front of me. “I’ll let her know you’re here. Please sign in and fill out a visitor’s badge.”
I do as she says and move to the side of the room to wait.
After a few minutes, another door finally opens and I can’t believe my eyes.
It’s Miss I-Hate-Saturdays.
She might be looking down at her file, but I know for a fact it’s her. It’s the same long, strawberry-blonde hair that made me stop when I saw her stranded on the side of the road. I stopped to help her, but ended up changing that loser’s tire since she was desperate to get home.
I had to force her out of my mind, leaving her with a man who doesn’t know how to change a fucking tire.
But just five days later, here she is.
As good as she looked in jeans and heels while standing in a ditch, I might enjoy looking at her now even more. In a skirt that hits her above the knees, I wonder how she moves since it’s molded to every curve.
Every perfect, fucking curve.
Her shirt clings to her tits, and in another pair of sexy heels, she doesn’t stand taller than my shoulders.
I watch her hand come up to tuck her long hair behind her ear. “Mr. Hollingswor—” Her voice catches the second she lays eyes on me.
Seeing her expression go from all business to surprised is a sight to see. Here in the harsh, fluorescent lighting, it’s easier to see the blue of her eyes set against her light, creamy skin. Her features are perfect, just as delicate as the rest of her. I can’t look away from her full pink lips as they part before she gathers herself quickly and glances back down at the file in her hand.
When her eyes dart back, she repeats with a scowl, “Mr. Hollingsworth?”
I don’t move from where I’m leaning against the windowed wall of the office. I do, however, feel myself smile and raise an eyebrow when I respond, “That would be me.”
She looks to her file quickly before back up. “Asa Hollingsworth?”
I raise both brows this time and widen my eyes but don’t move. “Still me.”
She looks over at the desk where the three secretaries are watching us with a huge amount of curiosity.
“Of course.” Her voice changes, back to business, when she puts one sexy-heeled foot in front of the other to offer me her hand for the second time. “Ms. Lockhart, Emerson’s counselor.”
I give her small hand a squeeze and enjoy her touch for the second time. “Ms. Lockhart. Good to see you again.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand, but when the bell rings through the building, she finally releases me and gives her head a little shake. “If you’ll follow me to my office, we can speak there.”
I hold my hand out low. “Lead the way.”
She turns and I follow, reaching for the door. Once it’s open, the hustle and chatter of hundreds of students heading to their next classes fills the air. I follow through the hallway as teenagers greet her.
“Hi, Miss Lockhart.”
“Hiya, Mrs. Lockhart.”
“Miz Lockhart, what-up?”
She greets them all with warm smiles. At least she did when I wasn’t staring at her ass as I followed her through the crowded halls. I don’t remember the last time anyone has held my attention like this.
I shouldn’t say that. The last time was Saturday night when I was changing a tire on the side of the road. But before then—I can’t remember.
When we make it to the Counseling Center, she reaches for the door and I hold it as she passes. Walking through another reception area with a few students waiting around, she leads me to an office tucked off to the side.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod, following her in, taking a seat across from her desk. When I hear the door close behind me, I find myself alone with Mrs, Ms
, Miss, or Miz Lockhart.
*****
Keelie
What are the fucking odds? It’s him, Mister I’m So Hot—I Don’t Need Hummus as an Accessory.
Or, Mister I’m So Hot—I Can Change a Tire in Two Point Five Seconds Flat.
Or, Mister I’m So Hot—My Smile Lines Make Me Hotter.
But at least now I have a real name. Mister I’m So Hot—My Name is Interesting … Asa Hollingsworth.
Fuck, Keelie. Pull it together.
I take a breath but don’t get a word in when he starts, “How’s your head?”
I stop, surprised by his question. Bringing my hand up to my temple, the memory of hitting my head Saturday night returns. My bump is gone and even the bruise is starting to fade—nothing a little concealer can’t hide. “I’m all good. The swelling is gone and I don’t think I lost too many brain cells.”
“Did your Saturday improve or are you still a Saturday-hater?”
So much for simply discussing Emerson and being done with it.
When I sit at my desk across from him, those hazel eyes I found so intriguing the other night do funny things to my insides as he intently watches me lower to my seat. I ignore his question, and instead offer him my gratitude again. “Thanks again for your help with the tire.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I narrow my eyes and pause.
“You still a Saturday-hater?”
“I don’t hate Saturdays,” I lie. “That came out all wrong during a frustrating moment after a few exasperating hours. No one hates Saturdays.”
He raises a brow. “You mean no one but you?”
“Mr. Hollingsworth—”
“It’s Asa,” he corrects me. “Should I call you Miss, Mrs, or Ms?”
