Into You Series: The Complete Collection

10. Saria

CHAPTER 10

SARIA

D id I expect to spend my Saturday night crying in the arms of a grown man? No. Did I also expect to look up and see that same beautiful, hunk of a man having two tears rolling down his cheeks? Also no. Did that make me cry more? You bet.

It was a weirdly humbling night having Harry turn me down. I don’t think I’ve ever had an offer of sex be turned down by any man, but Harry doesn’t seem to be like most men. He’s the kind of man who cries, doesn’t know shit about social media, and also has a six-year-old as an auto assistant, which is just about the cutest thing in the entire world. I only know that fact because I show up at his house the next morning to check in on Frankie—my sad little broken-down van baby.

When I arrive, there’s music blasting over the speakers—Red Hot Chili Peppers—and Cara is sitting cross-legged on the floor next to my van with a doll in each hand, play talking to each other. She’s in her own little world and, judging by how the only part of Harry I see is his feet, I’m willing to bet he is as well.

“Wrench?” he calls.

Cara instantly goes into action, dropping both dolls in her lap and twisting at the waist to look in the open tool box next to her. Well, the one that looks practical, at least. There are two on the ground: a bright pink plastic one and another that’s black and yellow and looks so heavy and jam-packed with tools that I’m not sure I’d even be able to lift it if I tried.

Cara wiggles her little arm in there, tugs out a tool like she’s found hidden treasure, rubs over it once with a spare rag, then places it in Harry’s disembodied open palm that disappears under the car once more.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

Harry’s feet shift quickly, and Cara giggles at his startled behavior. I can’t help but laugh too.

“Is that Saria I hear?” Harry’s voice is muffled before he rolls out to see me. His cheeks are covered in various work stains, but his boyish smile still makes me a little weak in the knees.

“How’s my baby doing?” I ask, placing a hand on Frankie’s side mirror.

When I look down, Harry is cringing. Hell, even Cara has an overexaggerated cringe that stretches from corner to corner of her mouth. I wonder if she’s actually tuned in to the situation or if she’s just mimicking her dad. Either way, the look of uncertainty doesn’t play well with my nerves.

“What’d you do to her?” I ask, fists instinctually going to my hips. I don’t expect the best for Frankie, but she is my van after all, and we’ll tackle whatever we need to tackle together.

Harry inhales deeply. He’s wearing another one of those wonderful shirts that tugs at his chest and stretches over his shoulders like one flex could rip it in two. Does he know bigger shirts exist, or is that just how shirts fit him? T-shirt companies really need to reevaluate men with his proportions. Or maybe they just didn’t expect a man to be this perfectly jacked.

“It’s not what I did to your van, but what I’ll have to do,” he says.

I gasp, hand going to my chest. Cara giggles at the motion.

“Tell me the diagnosis, doc,” I say, trying to play into the humor for Cara, but too many questions start to invade my brain.

Is she unfixable?

Will I ever escape this town?

Does Harry always wear shirts that tight?

“I ordered some parts, but it’s gonna need a lot more work,” he says.

“Is it salvageable?” I ask, wincing.

“Yeah, but it’ll take a couple months, and that’s if it’s worked on almost every day. You’ll be leaving on your super-wonderful trip in the dead of winter.”

Whew. Deep breaths. Still on a decent timeline.

“That’s about when I was going to leave anyway,” I say. “So, how much?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the ends so that they’re flared out again.

“Some of the pipes below are rusted,” he says. “Those need to be replaced. Some of the internal electrical is messed up too. You bought a technically renovated van, but it definitely needs an overhaul if you ask me. You can gut it?—”

“I don’t want to gut it,” I say, placing a hand on my hip. “That’s just more time.”

Harry shakes his head. “But you should get insulation. It doesn’t look like they covered that part of it.” He rolls the side door open and gestures to the very empty interior walls. Most renovated vans have insulation covered by wall planks. This is just carpeted walls and some reflective cardboard duct-taped to the windows—whatever good that does.

“No insulation,” I insist. “Sleeping bags work just as well.”

Harry tilts his head downward at me, almost in a chastising way. I think about how he looked at me just one week ago, the domineering stances he had over me as I lay fully naked for him on the floor of his apartment. I feel my heart rate race down between my legs. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t aching for him to look at me like that just once more.

When I hold my ground, lifting my chin in the air with an unspoken final word, he rolls his eyes.

“Okay, fine, so, you’ll lose a few toes. That’s your prerogative. But you do need the electrical fixed to at least run a heater.” He leans one foot on the interior and points to the central electrical unit. “It’s fried.”

I’m not sure what made me think I could conquer this, or that buying a van would be the end-all solution for my problems. I should have known when I got one look at the previous van’s owner that this would be more of a fixer-upper than I had intended, but electrical…that was the one thing I didn’t want.

“I’m not much of a project-based person,” I say, rolling both my lips inward and giving them a loud pop to express just how useless I really am.

“Well then, enlist some help,” he says with a chuckle. “You’re not going anywhere for any extended period of time without that fixed.”

“I’ll pay you for labor,” I say quickly.

He tilts his head to the side with a smile. I wonder if he’s getting accustomed to my ridiculous outbursts.

“I’m not exactly a van renovation shop,” he says.

“No, but…extra money can’t hurt, right?”

Harry narrows his eyes, and I feel my legs tense up once more. He could slay a girl with that expression.

“Are you trying to buy me with money?” he asks with a low, rumbling chuckle.

“Where else am I going to spend my life savings?” I say jokingly.

Harry shakes his head. “This isn’t some Pretty Woman scenario?—”

“Oh, do you cry at that movie also?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes with a lopsided smirk. “Funny, last I checked you were crying at last night’s movie too?—”

“DADDY!”

We both turn to find Cara, eyes wide and arm extended, pointing at a small ball of mangy fur on the ground that just leapt out of the van through the open door. My heart catches in my throat.

“Holy… Is that…” I start, but Cara’s tear-filled wails stop me short.

A rat.

Cara bursts into sobs, grabbing both of her dolls and clutching them firmly to her chest. If I weren’t so shocked, I might be doing the same thing. Throw me one of those dolls, why don’t ya? But then, as I watch Harry run to comfort his daughter, it’s like my old babysitter instincts finally kick in and I’m instantly in action.

The next thing I know I’m storming over to Cara’s toy toolbox and turning it over, sending all the plastic tools clattering to the floor. I’m trying not to factor in her upset cries—work needs to be done, girl—as I run the length of the garage, pumping my arms, letting the plastic lid of the toolbox flail in the air before throwing it over the rat on the ground. It almost escapes initially, but I dive forward, wrapping my arms around the whole of the squirming box, keeping it trapped underneath with as much strength as I can manage.

“Move,” a husky voice says from behind me.

Without thinking, I shift to the side, letting Harry slam down his massive toolbox on top, trapping the rat underneath in a double toolbox prison.

I slowly let go, breathing heavily. I hadn’t realized how the adrenaline of the five-second event just about drove my heart rate over the edge into high blood pressure territory. Harry, though running back to his daughter, seems fairly unfazed by the whole thing.

Cara is an entirely different story.

That girl is wailing better than an opera singer. The echo chamber of the garage is not helping the banshee sounds leaving her mouth. Not that I blame the kid.

Harry hoists Cara onto his shoulder, and her tiny arms wrap around his thick neck. She buries her head into it, and the poor girl is hysterical the entire path up the staircase and into the lofted apartment above.

I stand there, alone, the absence of her cries bringing almost a lingering ringing in my ears. That apartment is hella soundproof. I look from the stacked toolboxes and back over to my van that sits with one wrench on the ground beside it, none the wiser.

“Were you carrying that beast inside you?” I ask the van, patting the back double doors before rounding to the front. “That’s disgusting, Frankie.”

A few minutes later, the apartment door opens again, and Harry descends alone.

“How is she?” I ask, leaning against Frankie but then deciding not to. Who knows what other beasties lurk inside…

“She’s fine. Not the first rat she’s seen in the shop. Especially with vans,” he says, quirking up an eyebrow. I twist my lips to the side with a smile. He returns the gesture. “Still a bit spooked, but she’s like one of those fainting goats. If she’s scared enough, she’ll just”—Harry makes a popping sound with his lips—“fall right fast asleep. I give her an hour or so before she wakes up and is perfectly fine.”

I smile and he squints at me, looking between my eyes as if trying to find something. I narrow my eyes back at him and tilt my head to the side.

“What?” I ask.

“You acted fast on that one,” he says.

I bark out a laugh. “I told you I’m the best babysitter in the area,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning my back against the van, fearless. Who cares what else is in there? I’m the friggin’ queen of this shop.

Harry nods and pockets his hands in his jeans. “I have class Tuesday if you want to hold up your part of the deal.”

“You trust me with Cara?” I ask.

“Hey, not a lot of people handle rats like that,” he says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“Okay. Good. A deal is a deal,” I say. “You endured my friends last night?—”

“And a sad dog movie.”

“ And a sad dog movie,” I amend. “I’ll be here Tuesday for my side of the bargain.”

Harry smiles at me with those adorable laugh lines and that twinkle in his eyes. What a dreamboat. What the heck was Cara’s mom thinking when she decided to leave him ?

“Also, I’ll help you,” he says. I blink a few times in confusion before he answers my unspoken question. “I’ll help you with renovations if you want me to. The parts won’t come in for a few weeks anyway, so it’s not like the van is going anywhere.”

“Why?” I ask. “That’s almost three months of your life.”

He shrugs. “Because I’m a sucker for girls who cry,” he says, tossing the rag from the ground over his shoulder.

When he runs another hand through his hair, his shirt does that wonderful tugging thing again. I’m on board with watching that for the next three months if I absolutely have to.