Exes With Benefits

  “And this kicking my boyfriend’s ass plan plays exactly what role in the whole Canaan Ford’s Changed Agenda?”

  “I have changed. But that doesn’t mean I won’t make a fucker answer for hurting you.” His hand covered my knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “That’s a part of me I’m never changing. Ever.”

  My eyes met his from the side. His forehead was folded in strong lines, but when he caught my smile, his whole expression relaxed.

  “You say the sweetest things to me when you’re plotting revenge and torture.”

  His chest moved when he snorted. “I’m a romantic guy.”

  Checking the time on my phone, I couldn’t believe how late I’d slept. Even on my fancy memory foam mattress back at my apartment, I didn’t sleep this late. And Canaan Ford wasn’t exactly a soft or plush sleeping arrangement.

  “Don’t you have to work today?”

  “Yeah. I was supposed to be there at seven.” His shoulders moved. He didn’t look in a hurry to get going, and it was already past eight.

  “Now I feel even worse for falling asleep on you.” Shoving up from the floor, I held out my hands to give him a pull up. “You didn’t get any sleep, can’t feel your lower half, and are late to work.”

  “Perks of being the owner. It’s okay if I roll in late every once in a while.” He took my hands and let me hoist him to his feet. His chest bumped against mine, his head hanging above mine. His hands didn’t slip away from mine once he was up. Neither did mine.

  Feeling must have been rushing into his legs again because half of his face pinched together as he stomped his feet a few times. “Thanks for letting me sleep over. You little minx.”

  My eyes narrowed at him, but there was no real anger behind it. “You didn’t sleep.”

  His hands tugged me closer, until my body fitted to his. “Even better.”

  My heart was malfunctioning, firing so damn loudly I was worried he could hear it. Whatever that connection was between us—that invisible rope that was so charged with electric current it was dangerous—cinched tighter around me, until I couldn’t breathe.

  Canaan Ford wasn’t just the boy who’d been my friend when I needed one. He wasn’t just the first boy I’d kissed and fallen in love with. He wasn’t just the man I’d exchanged vows with and whose child I’d carried in my womb for a fleeting moment. He was the man who, with one touch, could turn me on in such a way I became an unknowing slave to his any whim.

  “Maggie . . .” His head dropped outside of my ear, his thumb brushing along the underside of my wrist.

  “You should get going to work.” My eyes squeezed shut as I focused on keeping him from getting any farther past my walls. “I’ll swing by with some lunch for you later. As a small thanks for letting me use your body as a cushion.”

  He recognized it too. The moment had passed.

  Taking a breath, he leaned back, then let go of me a few moments later. The seriousness left him, the glint of mischief taking its place in his gold eyes. “The use of my body is yours whenever and wherever. No thanks required.”

  As he started down the stairs, I followed, pausing at the top. “For lunch? You still like what you like?”

  Canaan had been eating the same kind of sandwich for as long as I could remember. But change and all.

  He stopped at the bottom, his eyes lingering on me to the point of making me shift. He smiled when he watched me fidget. “I still like what I like.”

  The body shop looked busy when I rolled up to it later that day. Through the garage windows, I could see bodies milling around inside, so I sneaked in the side door that led into the office.

  The exterior of the shop might not have changed much, but the office sure had. Canaan’s dad, John, had run a successful business when he owned it, but his office looked like a family of squirrels lived inside and were hoarding every little thing they could get their paws on. Disorganized was a nicer way of putting it, I guess, though if you asked John for a copy of a receipt, he could whip it out just like that.

  Canaan’s style of organization came with filing cabinets, a laptop perched on his dad’s old desk, and a wall of white boards that kept track of projects and timelines. I had to double check to make sure it was Canaan’s handwriting because, yeah, he’d never been known for his organizational skills either.

  Moving around his office, I was drawn to the pictures propped along the perimeter of his desk. Old pictures of the shop in its early days when John had opened it after marrying Mrs. Ford. Some candid shots of Canaan and Asher when they’d been boys.

  And then there was a photo of me, taken on our wedding day. It wasn’t a portrait of the two of us. Just me, by myself, smiling in that summer dress in front of the courthouse like I’d just struck gold. There was a faint streak across the glass. A streak of grease, like he’d been staring at my picture and run his thumb across my reflection.

  I leaned away, not wanting to spend any time overthinking a streak of grease painted across my photo.

  As I made my way to the door leading into the garage, I heard voices. One was Canaan’s, and the other was a female’s. I wasn’t sure why I felt my proverbial hackles rise as I moved through the garage—I couldn’t even make out what they were saying. Maybe it was experience speaking. It was a rare woman who could have a chat with Canaan without thinking about or conspiring how to get him between her legs. I’d lost count of the chicks I’d had to chase off when they started to slide in a little too close.

  I could hear it in this one’s tone before I could make out her individual words. She wanted him. Now. Later. Whenever. However.

  That might have been why I felt my upper lip curling as I finished weaving through the cars. Not that I should have cared who chased Canaan anymore, but that familiar push of possession took over.

  Especially when I finally got a look at her. I didn’t recognize her, but she could have been the dirty magazine version of the girl next door. Sexy as all hell, but she managed to balance all of that sex appeal with a sweet, wholesome aura.

  She didn’t notice me approach—she probably wouldn’t have noticed a meteor hurtling her way with the way she was focused on Canaan—but he noticed. Canaan’s head turned the moment I came into view, the serious look on his face relaxing.

  My feet had a tough time continuing to move with the way he was watching me. Possession. It was in his eyes too.

  It wasn’t until she’d lost his attention that she saw me, still coming closer. The perma-smile painted on her lips started to fall. “I’m sorry to keep you so long, Canaan. I didn’t know you had company.” She didn’t quite make company sound like a dirty word, but it wasn’t harmless sounding, that was for damn sure.

  “I do,” he answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be bringing him lunch at work.

  Lifting the sack lunch, I gave it a shake. Canaan’s mouth moved, like we were in on a secret, his gaze roaming me at an unhurried pace. So I didn’t feel so bad returning the careful inspection, because Hot. Fucking. Damn.

  Canaan was in his mechanic jumpsuit, but he had shrugged out of the top half and tied the arms around his waist, leaving nothing to cover his upper half except a thin white tank painted to his skin and a whole mess of grease streaked everywhere else.

  It was hot as the inner circle of hell inside the garage, but I had to ward off the shiver that accompanied my scrupulous examination.

  “Well? Who is she?” the woman asked when both of us just stood there, staring at each other.

  For a moment, I’d forgotten she was in the same room with us. Which was not good. Especially when I was thinking about all the fun ways I could free him of the rest of his clothing.

  Canaan motioned at me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “My wife.”

  The instant protest didn’t rise like before. It didn’t spout from my lips like it should have.

  “You’re married?”

  I didn’t have to see the look on her face to imagine it. Her voice told t
he whole story.

  “For almost six years now,” Canaan continued, giving me a look that suggested he was as surprised as I was that I wasn’t arguing the fact.

  The woman choked on a laugh, appraising me with new eyes. I didn’t miss her gaze flicker to my left hand before they wandered back to him. “You don’t wear a ring, so I never assumed . . .”

  “A ring seems like a stupid thing to signify the way I feel about the person I promised to spend forever with.” Canaan shrugged, holding out his hand, palm up. “If you want to leave your key, I’ll check your car out later to see if I can find anything wrong.”

  The woman seemed to be stalling as she retrieved a key from her purse, dropping it in his hand a minute later. “I’d appreciate that. You wouldn’t think a brand-new car would be acting up so often.”

  Canaan glanced out the open garage door, where a gleaming white fancy-looking sedan was parked. “You know if you take it to the dealership where you bought it, you get free service. It’s part of your warranty for the first fifty thousand miles.”

  “How could I forget? You remind me every time I bring it in.” The woman gave me one last glance, not exactly a bitchy look but a confused one, then turned to leave. “But there’s a difference between standard service and quality service.”

  “I specialize in vintage domestics, not new luxury imports,” Canaan replied, like this was a script he was familiar with.

  The woman paused just outside the garage door, glancing back at him with a look that had those proverbial claws joining in with those hackles. Mine, I found my psyche sneering at hers.

  “I don’t know why you specialize when a little variety could keep things so much more interesting.” I didn’t miss the suggestive glint in her eyes before she covered them with sunglasses that had probably cost the price of a first class ticket to Cape Town. Which was where I wanted to send her. Or wherever the farthest point on the planet was from here.

  “I know what I like. I know what I’m good with. That’s why I specialize.” He might have been talking to her, but he was looking at me. “A person who says they want variety is just saying they don’t have a goddamned clue what they want. I’ve always known what I wanted. Always.”

  As she left, Canaan hung the woman’s keys up on a big pegboard of other keys.

  He moved toward me. “That speech just now? It wasn’t only about this shop, you know.”

  My throat went dry now that it was just the two of us, especially with the way he was moving toward me, looking the way he did. “You might have always known what you wanted, but you never made those wants clear to anyone else.”

  “I think I’ve made what I want really damn clear.” He didn’t say my name—he didn’t have to. “You have any questions on that, fire away.” When my mouth stayed closed, he waved toward the office. “I’m starving. Good timing.” He nudged me as I handed him his lunch, then he led the way through the maze of cars lined in the garage.

  “I’m sure your lady caller just now would have been happy to serve you up whatever you asked for. Too bad for you, because this lady caller only packed you roast beef on rye. With a side of macaroni salad.”

  “You could have packed me a can of SPAM and I would have picked yours over hers any day of the week.”

  That was saying a lot since the one bite of SPAM Canaan had ingested in his life had come with a never-ending stream of obscenities, followed by a solemn vow to never allow canned meat in his presence again.

  “Who was that?” I asked, all casual-like and like I wasn’t dying to know who the reincarnated Helen of Troy was.

  “Who?” he asked, swinging the office door open for me.

  “Canaan . . .” I gave him a look.

  “What?” He didn’t look like he was messing with me.

  “That woman. Who was the woman who was just here?”

  “Oh. Her.” He closed the door behind us then moved to the thermostat to dial down the temperature a few degrees. I could already feel sweat winding down my spine from the few minutes I’d spent out in that garage. “That’s Lyla.” He set his lunch on his desk, reaching for a rag to wipe some of the grease from his hands. “Or wait. Lola. Or no.” His brows pulled together. “Lyla. I think I was right the first time. Or something that starts with an L and ends with an a. One of those names for sure.”

  I slid into one of the chairs across from his desk, trying not to fixate on the way his chest moved as he scrubbed at his hands. But by god, I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  “You really don’t know her name?” I asked.

  “I could tell you a thousand facts about her car, if you wanted.” He paused, like he was waiting for me to accept his offer.

  “It sounds like she’s been here more than a couple of times . . .” I tried to make it sound like I wasn’t fishing for information and only trying to have a simple conversation, but it didn’t look like Canaan was buying it.

  “You know those people who are always going to the doctor thinking something’s wrong with them? Hypochondriacs?” He finished wiping his hands and dropped into his chair across from me. When I nodded, he continued. “She’s got a hypochondriac of a car. That’s why she’s in here practically every other week.”

  “Every other week?” I blinked as he dug into the paper sack and pulled out the sandwich. “Is there anything ever wrong with her car?”

  He held out one half for me, but I shook my head. “Nope. Every time I go to check the engine or the headlights or the control panel or whatever else it is, there’s nothing wrong. Like I said, she’s a car hypochondriac.”

  I watched him tear off a bite of sandwich and chew it, and I tried not to smile when he groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. “And you’ve never thought maybe she might be swinging by for another reason?”

  “Like what other reason?” When my eyebrow lifted, he grunted. “Like for sex? Is that what you’re getting at? That Miss L-named customer is frequenting my shop hoping it’s her engine I’ll service?”

  I peeled a Post-It note from the stack, wadded it up, and tossed it at him. He didn’t move, letting it hit him right between the eyes. “Like that very same thought hasn’t crossed your mind. How many women do you know who show up to a mechanic shop in a dress and heels?”

  Canaan swallowed his bite, leaning over the desk enough he could see all of me. A smirk was already in place when he sat back. “Only two.” He grinned at me, popping the last corner of sandwich into his mouth.

  Beneath my cheeks, I felt heat rushing. There was a difference between the kind of dress she’d been wearing and the one I was. About two yards of fabric of a difference.

  “These are wedges, not heels,” I stated, like there was a world of difference between the two.

  “Wedges, heels, stilts. You can call them whatever the hell you want. All a guy sees is a few inches of elevation to put your lap in closer proximity to mine. For which, thank you, by the way. I appreciate you being so accommodating.”

  My tongue worked into my cheek to keep from responding with what I wanted to. It was better to let him think I couldn’t care less about what he was suggesting, than to give him the response I guessed he was hoping for. “This dress just happened to be the last clean item in my suitcase, so don’t go flattering yourself that I’m here for the same reason as Miss L.”

  His eyes were shining as he cracked open the can of Coke I’d packed for him. “I don’t care what excuse you have for it. A woman wears a dress for one reason and one reason only.”

  “Because she wants to?”

  “Because she wants her man to lift it up and give it to her.” When my mouth dropped open a little, he continued, “It’s a universal law. Trust me. A woman wears a dress, she wants to be fucked in it.”

  “Nuns wear dress-like things every single day. How does that work into your universal law?”

  He took a drink of his Coke, his shoulders lifting. “Nuns are really trying to get laid then. Every single day.”

&
nbsp; “That’s ridiculous. You can’t say with absolute certainty that every woman who has ever worn a dress had some ulterior motivation to get laid.”

  Canaan set his Coke down, his eyes finding mine. “I only really care about the reason one woman chose to wear a dress today.”

  The chair suddenly became uncomfortable to sit in. “I already told you my reason.”

  He scooted his lunch aside. “You did laundry two nights ago. I saw you from my window through yours. And yeah, I know admitting that ups my creep factor.”

  A chorus of curses went off in my mind. He was right. This dress wasn’t the only thing left in my suitcase. “You watched me do laundry?”

  He nodded, unapologetic.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was walking by a window and there you were and I’ve never been able to look away from you, no matter what you were doing.”

  “Canaan . . .”

  His hand slid across the desk toward me. “You know how I feel about you. You know I still care about and want you.” His throat moved before he could keep going. “That I still love you. More than anyone’s ever loved another person, but still less than you deserve.”

  My chest seized when I heard those words come from him. When I heard the word. Love. If ever there was a more confusing emotion on the planet, I had yet to experience it.

  “Please . . . don’t,” I said, all other words failing me.

  “I can’t.” He moved out of his chair, coming around the side of the desk.

  “Stop,” I breathed.

  “Never.” He didn’t stop until he was in front of me, between the chair and the desk. “So tell me, why did you put on a dress before deciding to come over here today?”

  I wanted to squirm in my chair, but I forced myself to stay still. “That’s a stupid question.”

  “Then give me a stupid answer.”

  My head turned toward the door I’d come in earlier. I could have left. He would have let me. But I stayed in my seat, in front of him, going nowhere, finally accepting the reality of the situation. The reality of us.