Never Dig Beneath a Grave

She clears her throat, her gaze going to anything but me.

It pisses me off.

I want her gaze. I want her touch. I want her to leave so we can put this shit behind us. Forget each other again, if that’s what it takes.

Even though I’ve never fucking forgotten her.

I turn back to the wheel, breaking the eye contact that fucking seared something into my chest, like a damned branding iron. “Go home, Hannah.”

She doesn’t say anything and time seems to stand still for a moment while she processes my request.

Then, finally, she quietly rises to her feet.

There’s no use delving into the past. What’s done is done and apologizing for it now, a couple years later, doesn’t mean a damned thing. I was just an idiot kid pretending to be a man who thought he was falling for a girl when in reality, I didn’t know shit.

Love’s a made-up construct for two people to justify the worst parts of their relationship. All the reasons why they shouldn’t be together look a whole hell of a lot better when you say,oh, but we’re in love.

Fuck that.

Love . . . the biggest corporate scam there is.

“Goodnight, Mason.”

I listen to the quiet sounds of her footsteps echoing on the concrete as she retreats and then moments later, the garage door closes and I’m alone in the aftermath of what happens when I let Hannah Gaines get close again.

“Goodnight, Hannah.”

Mason

Hannah Gaines is without a doubt, the most annoying woman I’ve ever met.

And I’m fucking obsessed with her.

She’s cheerful when I’m not. Sunny when it’s pouring down rain and her goddamned smile lights up the fucking room.

She’s funny. Smart. Sexy as fuck, especially when she’s concentrating on something or trying to hide the blush on her cheeks.

She’s wormed her way into every facet of the garage. I give her free rein over the lobby. She keeps up with the invoices and the customer calls. People love her.

She’s a fucking godsend, but I’ll be damned if I tell her that.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I must be a masochist. Why else would I keep her around? I know the repercussions of having her here, but even those don’t seem to matter anymore.

The problem?

I can’t stand her.

I also can’t convince myself to get rid of her.

I should have said no when I had the chance. Now, it’s too late.

She’s become an itch I can’t scratch . . . a nuisance fucking with my head. Every time she laughs. Every time she smiles. When I catch a hint of that damned perfume.

She’s burrowed her way back into my head.

I fucking hate it.

She hasn’t spoken to me, save for the few occasions when she needs a quote for a customer or to set up an appointment.