I closed it with the back of my hand as I said, “Casserole. It tastes like butthole, but if you don’t have taste buds, you can have the rest.”

They didn’t sound that interested, but I filled my water bottle from the filter and left the room only saying “see ya” to the two I was on speaking terms with.

I got back to my room and finished taping the car I was set to start priming that afternoon. I was going over my notes for it, triple checking the paint color on the invoice with the number on the label when the door opened. I didn’t look up after I heard the first two steps taken inside. Only one person walked that heavily.

“Do you need me to do something?” I called out before he got too far in.

The footsteps kept coming and so did his voice. “I wanted to double-check something on the SS,” Ripley answered immediately.

I didn’t pinch my lips together or make a face. I stood up and immediately handed over the clipboard with the notes I was holding. He was already standing beside me. I kept my eyes on the board as he took it, those long fingers flipping to the page I had just been reading.

Then I took a step back and headed into the booth to look around and make sure all the taping was correct, even though I knew it was.

Rip didn’t immediately say anything; I managed to make it halfway around the car before he called out from somewhere outside the booth, “I’m done.”

I didn’t get why he didn’t just look up the order on the computer, but I wasn’t going to waste my time even wondering.

The petty part of me almost wanted to ignore him, but I didn’t. I wasn’t going to give him even that. So I called out in return, “Okay.”

When I headed back out to the main room and didn’t find him there, I was relieved.

I really was.

* * *

The next day, I was in the middle of waiting for our machine to finish agitating the paint I was about to start using on a late model Audi A4 when the door to my room opened. A big figure headed inside, letting the door close behind him.

I knew who it was.

I was going to be the bigger person, so I made myself ask, “What can I do for you?”

Rip waited until he’d taken a few more steps inside the room before saying, “I wanted to check the wheels that were on your list this morning.”

When had he looked at my schedule?

But I didn’t ask. Instead I made sure to meet his eyes briefly—really briefly. His face was that usual mask of tightness and control, and I sucked it in and spit it right back out, then gestured toward my right where I had moved the wheels an hour ago. Out of my peripheral vision, I watched him move to them, those long legs eating up the room that usually felt massive for me. Then I focused back on the machine, hoping it would hurry up and finish its cycle so I could move on with my next project before lunch.

Rip was quiet, and I purposely moved to give him my back.

The cycle finished before he got done inspecting my work, and I headed toward the booth to transfer the paint.

When I headed back into the main room to put on my protective suit, he was still there, this time looking through one of the paint catalogues I had sitting on the counter. If he looked over at me, I honestly had no idea. I kept my eyes straight forward, on the wall across the room. He didn’t say a word to me as I changed into my sneakers first, then stepped into my suit and zipped it up, and he didn’t reply as I headed into the booth and called out over my shoulder, “Knock if you need me.”

I closed myself in my room, and at some point later, when I glanced over at one of the only windows in the white room, I found Rip standing there, looking in.

I focused back on the panels that needed my attention.

When I took my lunch break later on, I went outside again. Just like the day before, when I headed back to the break room to drop off my bag and leftovers in the fridge, Rip was sitting there, eating something made with chicken and leafing through a magazine. We made eye contact, and I only broke it when I got too close and had to open the fridge.

Then I took myself back downstairs.

* * *

The next morning, well after nine in the morning, once all the shop guys were there, I made my way to the main floor to ask them to help me move what we called the rotisserie—an engine block was mounted to it—from the main floor into the booth. We had set it up the day before, but it was too heavy for me to move it by myself or with just one other person.

Was it on purpose that I headed straight toward Owen and Ashton to help me roll the rotisserie into the paint room? It sure was. But I kept my head held high and a smile on my face as I moved between the cars parked on the floor and made my way to the two men who were always really nice to me.

“Hey,” I said as I came up to them.

Ashton, who was the one standing, immediately tipped his chin up and flashed me a warm smile. “Hey, Luna.”

Beneath the car, Owen called out, “Need help with the rotisserie?”

There was a reason why Owen was one of my favorite guys at CCC. “Yes,” I answered, stopping right beside Ashton to take a peek at what he was looking at. There was a spot of something dark and liquid-like on the floor beside where Owen was lying, looking up with a wrench in his hand. “Would you guys help me roll it out when you get a chance, please?”

“Five minutes?” Owen asked.

I nodded at him from where I was standing looking down at him. “Thanks. I’ll meet you in my room then whenever you’re both ready,” I told them.

The new guy nodded.

Keeping my gaze locked on the cars on the floor as I made my path back to my room, I could see Rip turning down the same hallway I was heading to, but he ducked into the bathroom instead. Back inside my room, I went through the booth one more time to make sure everything was where it needed to be. Soon enough, I heard the door open and slam closed. Figuring it was them, I headed back out and almost completely stopped walking when I found Rip standing there with his hands on his hips.

“Need help moving something?” he asked as he wiped his hands on a rag, those intense eyes on me.

I couldn’t help but slide my gaze toward the door for a split second before aiming them back toward his face and saying, “I already asked the guys for help.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

I made myself stop looking at it. “They said they’d be about five minutes,” I finished, glancing toward the door one more time.

Rip’s nose wrinkled for a moment before he shoved his rag into one of the pockets of his coveralls and said carefully, “You didn’t ask me.”

I blinked. “Ask you?” For permission?

“For help,” he clarified, his voice tight.

Oh. “I figured you would tell them to help me.” I kept my voice even, calm, controlled. “It’s what you always do.” Then I couldn’t help it as I glanced toward the door one more time. “I didn’t want to waste your time when I can ask myself.”

His nose wrinkled again right around the time I said the middle sentence, and it didn’t go anywhere as I spoke. What I did notice was the way he crossed his arms over his chest, that gaze still locked on mine like he had no intention of moving it elsewhere. He tipped his chin back, giving me a good view of his long and strong neck. “What have I told you about wasting my time?” he asked in that same voice.

The skin along my spine instantly prickled, and I couldn’t help but feel this tiny stab of pain right in my heart. Indignation. That would have been the perfect word to describe how I felt right then.

That and betrayal.

And anger.

But mostly indignation.

I didn’t let myself get riled up as I said, “I don’t want to assume anything, Mr. Ripley.”

Okay, maybe the Mr. Ripley part was a little petty, but I wasn’t going to beat myself up over it.

When I glanced at Ripley’s face as I said the words, and watched the way the entire length of his jawline went tight, it didn’t make me feel any better. It made me feel like crap. I wasn’t trying to make him feel bad. I didn’t want that from him.

I didn’t want anything from him.

So I got myself back on track. “You have better things to do with your time. You have enough going on right now with Mr. Cooper being gone.” His dad. Not just Mr. Cooper. His dad.