“Corbin.”
I ignored him as I pushed the door open, wishing it was one that could be satisfactorily slammed rather than the kind that swung closed on its own, and headed out into the lot in front of the shop.
Once there, I froze. I could either drive Remy’s Ferrari home—not that it was anywhere in sight. It damn well better be safe somewhere in the second of the two warehouse-sized buildings behind the office—or I could call someone to pick me up. Neither appealed to me.
Heat rushed to my face. What the fuck was I doing except proving Beau and Remy right. I’d stomped off like a brat rather than having a mature conversation. I’d worked all damn day, but I’d bitched the entire time.
I’d wanted to prove Beau wrong. That was part of the reason I’d agreed to this ridiculous bargain, but once again I’d made a fool of myself. My eyes stung, and I fought hard against the tears I absolutely refused to shed. No way in hell was I going to cry over this. Jesus, what kind of child would I be then?
I heard the door open behind me, but I didn’t turn around.
Beau brushed past me. “Come on, brat. Get in the car.”
Lights flashed on a black MX-5 Miata that was parked at the side of the building. At least I’d have a fun ride.
“I don’t see any security here,” Beau said as he pulled up in front of Remy’s house.
That was because I’d asked them to leave. For once, I wanted to be completely on my own. Connor, one of the guards that had been with my family for ages protested, but I assured him I’d be fine. “I can actually take care of myself. I get that you don’t believe that any more than my family does, but no one is going to fuck around with Remy’s house while I’m here.”
“But what about you? Will you be safe? Remington can afford to replace anything in that goddamned house, but he can’t replace you.”
I stared at him. Why did he care? “I don’t… The only reason he has security here is to protect the house.”
“So Remy and Henri don’t matter.”
“No, that’s not—Why are you like this?”
“I already told you. It’s fun.”
How the fuck was I supposed to stop being a brat when he kept doing everything he could to bring it out in me. “I’ll see you tomorrow for another day of torture.”
I started to get out of the car, but Beau seized my arm. “You do realize without you there, all of us would have shared those jobs. I’m not assigning you anything I don’t do myself.”
“You mean you don’t have…”
“Servants? No. Most body shops don’t come with maids.”
“I didn’t mean… Fuck.”
“Show me a better attitude tomorrow, and I’ll give you something more exciting to do.”
“Like what?”
He raised his brows.
I cleared my throat and tried again. Surely I could fucking do this. “I don’t know how to fix cars, so I’m not sure how I can contribute.”
“I’ll teach you.”
A sudden image of Beau leaning over me, arms around me, hands on mine flashed into my head, and I bit back a groan. Having him teach me would be like the intro to so many of the pornos I’d watched since the first time I’d walked into his shop.
I met his gaze and had to wonder if he was thinking that too.
Finally, he let me go, and I opened the door and stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“At seven this time.”
“Yes, sir.” The flare of heat in his eyes was worth the humiliation of my words.
Eleven
Beau
Corbin arrived five minutes early the next day, dressed in an old t-shirt and sweats. I intended to send him home with his dirty coveralls and make him wash them himself, but after he’d pitched a fit, I’d forgotten, so I handed him a fresh pair.
“Leave on your t-shirt and underwear and you’ll be more comfortable, but lose the sweats, even though it’s chilly today.”
“It was hot as fuck in here yesterday.”
“It tends to be like that.” And with Corbin near me, I’d be hot even if I was working in a freezer.
The boy just did something to me. As much as I hated it, I was getting damn tired of fighting it. Why the hell did I have to want someone who could bring me so much fucking trouble?
As I watched Corbin throughout the day, I could see that his attitude had already improved a lot. I could tell he was sore, and I saw the cuts and scrapes on his hands. The day before, those hands had been perfectly smooth and probably slathered in hundred-dollar moisturizer.
I wanted them on my body. I wanted to feel every bit of work he’d done for me. He needed this. He needed someone to expect something from him, to demand he do it and do it right instead of just letting him run wild.