He looks at me, head tilting, eyes assessing. Then he gapes at me. “You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sugar. You’re mad? Because I got you that emblem?”
“Yeah, you know what? I am.” I square my shoulders, fists clenching. “What part of me not wanting your money didn’t you understand? Was I unclear in any way? Because I’m pretty sure I told you—”
“It’s not money, Sugar,” he argues, jaw clenching. “It’s a thing.”
“It’s a thing that costs money!”
He flings the rag aside, throwing his hands up. “There’s no winning with you, is there?”
“It’s not about winning and losing. It’s about the fact I don’t want,” I wildly gesture between us, “this kind of thing. Between us.”
His face screws up. “What kind of thing?”
“The kind of thing where…” I clamp my mouth around a dozen aborted replies as he watches me, waiting, but I can’t find the words. I growl in frustration. “I don’t want you buying me shit!”
He’s unimpressed by this. “Well, I’m not taking it back. It belongs on the car.”
Hot annoyance runs down my spine, but I reach for my wallet. “Fine. I’ll pay you for it. How much was it?”
He shrugs. “It cost barely anything at all. I went to the scrap yard and salvaged it myself. It’s the real deal. It’s vintage. I’m not taking it back.”
He walks back toward the tool bench and starts hanging a variety of wrenches and pliers on the peg board. I stare at him, fully aware that I’m gawking. Finally, I ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
He laughs, not bothering to face me. “How long do you have? The list is pretty extensive.” He holds up his dirty hand and starts ticking off fingers like he’s going over a shopping list. “Entitled, selfish, petty, way too good-looking. I have this stupid fucking temper, as you well know. I’m too competitive. Then there are the concussions, which to be fair, I can’t exactly help. Fucks with your personality, though. Pretty sure my friends are tracking it behind my back.” He hangs the last wrench, turning to lean against the bench, arms crossed. “Oh, and then there’s the baggage, and do not even bother trying to unpack that shit. I mean, if you think I’m bad, be glad you haven’t met my brother. He’s the fucking worst.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, trying desperately to figure out how I got involved with this guy. Oh right, he punched me. In the face.
I look down at the emblem, and who knows? He’s probably lying. The whole thing is ridiculous. Sebastian wading through a sea of junk cars just to find me something like this—not money, just his time and effort—makes zero sense to me. For what? Some girl he barely knows? Some chick who hates his guts?
But the thing is, I can see it.
It’s just stupid and pointlessly difficult enough to be something he’d do.
I take a deep breath. “Look, if I accept this and let you put it in the Mustang, will you promise not to buy anything else for me? Will you promise to just leave me alone?”
He stares back at me, those blue eyes sparking, searching. “That’s what you really want?”
“Yes!”
Liar.
I know it’s a lie in the same way telling him I didn’t want him to kiss me was a lie. It’s one of those things I refuse to look too closely at. Something that’s just going to twist me up inside and make an unbearable situation even worse. Something I can’t afford to acknowledge.
I need him to leave me alone, so I’ll stop wanting him to not leave me alone.
But he wouldn’t get it. He’d find the frayed thread and tug at it, pick at it, until it’s all unraveled.
“Fine,” he finally says, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”
I give him the box, and without another word, he strides over to the Mustang, opening the driver’s side door. That gets my hackles up even more. That’s my seat. How fucking dare he. Territorialism rushes through me and I go to the other side, hopping in the passenger seat, looking on resentfully. He’s focused on the steering wheel, holding the Mustang emblem over the center.
Goddamn it.
It’s so pretty and shiny. It looks right.
He slides me a grin—this absurd, smarmy tilt of his lips—like he knows exactly why I’m so annoyed. “Pretty sweet, huh? Blue ones like these are really rare. I think there was only a limited run. Usually, they’re red, or red with blue.”
“Why did you do this for me?” I ask, unable to hold it in. “Is this a pity thing because I told you about my dad? Because I don’t want your fucking—”