Hot Mess

Chapter 6

Wren

I opened the French doors and walked into the house. If it was good enough for Tate to let himself into my house, I could do the same.

"Tate?" I called. My voice echoed through the large space and received no response. Wondering where he could be, I went in search of him, calling his name the entire time so he'd hear me and not fall off a ladder. My butt still ached from that, and I'd no doubt have a massive bruise there by morning.

Where could he be?

And then it hit me. The garage. No. Surely, he couldn't be trying to get into the garage after I'd told him it wasn't on the lease. Besides, there was a smaller garage at the other end of the driveway that he could use. I had even given him the key for that one.

The other one? No!

That was mine.

That was my dad's. His car collection.

My heart sank, and I ran back through the house and outside to find Tate still covered in paint—serves him right—trying to break into the garage.

"What are you doing?" I huffed as I screeched to a stop, and Tate turned to face me with an amused expression.

"Trying to get into the god damn garage, Wren. I need to put my car in there." He rolled his eyes.

"Hasn't bothered you before," I said, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

"That car is Rachel's. I couldn't give a shit about it. Do you really think I'd drive a fucking convertible?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest so his shirt strained across his firm biceps.

I angled my head and assessed. Yes. I absolutely thought he'd drive a convertible. He had that air about him. Obnoxious. Pretentious. As though he was better than everyone. Newsflash: He wasn't. Not even his looks could make up for his personality. "Thought you might have had dice hanging from your mirror, though."

Tate tensed.

"That's not for you." I pointed over my shoulder to the other one. "You can use that one."

"You're serious?"

"Yes, I'm serious." Tate stood there with his arms crossed and watched me curiously as though trying to see if I was bluffing or not. I wasn't.

"Why?"

"Because it's my garage."

"Your car is parked in the fucking driveway. You don't even use it."

"This isn't up for discussion, Tate. That garage is off limits."

"Give me one good reason why, and I'll leave it alone." He stepped forward and looked down at me. His jaw tense. "I am paying a god damn fortune for this place and want a reason why I can't use the garage."

Sighing in defeat and knowing he wouldn't give it a rest until I showed him, I shoved him out of my way and crossed over to the pin pad beside the garage door. I typed in my birthday—the code Dad used for everything—and waited for the mechanical whir of the roller doors as they lifted slowly, then I turned and walked away.

"Stop," Tate called out.

I stopped but refused to turn around. I couldn't look in the garage. I hadn't been in there since they died. It hurt too much. Those cars were Dad's most prized possessions. Aside from me and my mother, there was nothing he cherished more.

"This..." Tate stopped. "What? Umm. Wow." He was at a loss for words.

Taking a deep shaky breath, I twisted my fingers together and willed the tears away. My throat was aching, and my eyes stung from fighting the grief that was beginning to take hold inside me. I didn't let myself cry too often, and I certainly wasn't going to now. Not in front of Tate. "They're my dad's," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. I wasn't sure Tate could even hear me.