Unfriending the Dr by Piper Sullivan
Ryan
Three of the five bays inside Branson Automotive Repair & Restoration were filled, which was good for business, but it meant I wouldn’t have a lot of free time for the next week or so. A busted muffler, a broken alternator, and a custom restoration job would take up all of my free time.
It was just the distraction a man needed to stop thinking about things he had no business thinking about.
“When you gonna work up the stones to ask Persy out?” Oliver Thompson’s deep, booming voice echoed in the mostly concrete shop.
I sighed and shook my head at the old man’s question. It was nice having someone around during the day, but the man had a one-track mind since his daughter Gus had coupled up with Antonio Ricci, the local celebrity and internet chef.
“Persephone and I are friends.”
It was the same old answer I’d been giving for years, but it hadn’t felt right in too many of those years to count. And after that night three months ago, I felt like a liar calling her something as basic as a friend. That night was seared into my mind, every memory from the moment she opened her front door in that silver and purple dress that showed off her bombshell curves.
“Friends,” I muttered and tried to shake those images from my mind.
No good could come from those images.
Oliver shook his head and let out a gruff laugh. “Friends make the best lovers, Ryan. And you know, you could do a lot worse than a beautiful doctor. Your Persy is what the boys that work here would call eye candy.”
I let out a bark of laughter at hearing the older man use the young kids’ slang. “They call her that out of respect for you, old timer.” When Oliver wasn’t around, they used much saltier language.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing, letting those troublemakers come here to learn a trade. It’ll keep them out of big, grown-up trouble.”
I shrugged off Oliver’s praise. “Yes, Persy is beautiful.”
She dressed up for work every day, looking every inch the sexy doctor in slacks or skirts and colorful blouses that highlighted the perfect jiggle of her tits, but I liked her best of all in figure-hugging jeans and a plain tank top that showed off her lean, muscled arms.
“Don’t waste time, boy. Time flies, and some other man might not be so gun-shy about going after what he wants. Especially when it comes to a woman like that.”
I wasn’t gun-shy when it came to Persephone, I was cautious. She had made it perfectly clear that kissing me, making love to me, was a mistake. In three months and four days, she hadn’t brought up that night once. Her feelings were clear, and I had to respect them because I wouldn’t lose her, or Titus, over something as trivial as rejection.
“I’ll think about what you said.” Those were the only words that would end this line of conversation, and that was all I wanted.
Oliver barked out another laugh and shook his head. “You snooze, you lose, son. And if you lose the girl, how eager will you be to keep playing the role model for young Titus?”
“He’s my godson, I’m not going anywhere,” I growled.
“Not even when some other man strolls in and makes the move you won’t? Will you be happy to babysit while she’s out getting romanced by some smarmy doctor with goop in his hair?”
My only response was a low, feral growl.
“That’s what I thought. Don’t leave it too long. Good women don’t stay single forever.”
“Yeah?” I looked over the hood with a smile. “Is that why you’re dancing around Melanie Gibbons’ sister? Can’t keep secrets in a small town, Ollie.”
He groaned and pushed off the swivel chair I kept in my office just for him. “I’m too old to dance around a woman. We’re just feeling each other out while she’s visiting.”
“Sure.” Persephone had been as giddy as a schoolgirl when she told me she’d found the two flirting in the community center when she had picked up Titus from science club.
“I’ll quit bustin’ your chops if you tell me about this beauty right here.” Oliver stood in front of a 1955 Porsche Speedster, smiling like there was a naked woman draped over the hood.
I didn’t blame him—even not running and a little rusted in places, she was beautiful. I’d loved cars for as long as I could remember: the roar of the engine, the way it felt to floor it, and having my back pressed against the leather of a classic car. There was nothing like it, and I shared that love with my granddad and uncle, who ran this place until they both died, three years apart. Uncle Ted had two daughters who had no interest in cars or staying in Jackson’s Ridge, so I inherited the shop. This was the first time in ages that only one Branson worked in the shop and I did everything I could, including expanding into my true love, custom restoration, to keep the place running.
The Branson family wasn’t as prestigious or well-loved as the founding Jackson family, but this place was an institution. It was the only place to get your car fixed on this side of the county, and I didn’t take advantage of that fact. This place was my home, these people, nosy though they were, were my family. I helped them with their car problems, no matter how big or small, no matter what was in their wallet. I accepted cash and food as payment, and I always would.
“Stop daydreaming about your girl, boy, and tell me about this car.”
Oliver’s amused but gruff tone pulled me from my thoughts and back to the Speedster. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What else?” The eager smile that spread across his face was exactly the reminder I needed of why I loved that Oliver had taken to dropping by most mornings with coffee and pastries from Sweet Treats. The man didn’t know much about cars, but he loved them. He was curious as hell and asked plenty of questions—at least, when he wasn’t prying into my personal life, pathetic as it was at the moment.
“The engine needs a full rebuild, but I’ll wait until after lunch when the boys get here to start. They all want to know how it’s done, and I promised them school credit if they showed up for every shift scheduled until the job was done.”
“Hard ass,” he growled and stroked his chin. “I approve. Boys like that need it. Hell, I might have done better by my family if my old man had been more of a hard ass.” He clapped me on the back and smiled, pointing at the rusted mess under the hood. “How long are they committed?”
“At least six weeks, maybe more.” It was a big job for a big client, and I wanted to get it just right. The magazine spread the owner had lined up would be great exposure for the shop.
Maybe with a little more success, Persephone would see me as something more than her grease monkey best friend.
