How (Not) to Date Your Brother's Best Friend
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Megan Blake
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29
How (Not) To Start A Car
SAMANTHA
Please, don’t do this to me.
Samantha threw up a silent plea to the car gods, hoping for some divine intervention as she wrestled with the stubborn, silver key in her clunker’s ignition. The motor ticked, teasing her.
Her fingers curled around the steering wheel, and she let out a frustrated sigh. Why, oh why? She smacked her head against the wheel a few times, blonde locks of hair flying all over the place, as if that would magically fix her ride.
Smooth move, right?
She mentally kicked herself for not swapping this relic for something more reliable. Yeah, with what? Monopoly money?
Now, here she was, stuck in front of the closed grocery store. The last customer had turned her checkout into a never-ending chit-chat party. And there she was, standing solo in the dark parking lot, questioning her life choices.
Could she afford a cab? Could she afford to abandon her car here to be torn to shreds?
Maybe she could call one of her friends, get advice, or a ride from a friend…
The catch? Her go-to friend was Ellie. And, well, Ellie had probably crossed state lines by now.
Ellie had to visit her sick mom—which was why Sam took her shift. She would blame Ellie but…Ellie, her savior. The first person to put up with her as a roommate and not kick her to the curb.
So this? Not Ellie’s fault.
But…
SAM
Ellie!!! My car died.
The response was instantaneous.
ELLIE
Did I not tell you to burn that piece of shit down?
SAM
I need my car to go to work
ELLIE
Sam, a piece of metal on four smooth tires isn’t a car
Changing her life did mean she met some new friends, like Ellie. Despite her under-five-foot stature and her innocent blond bangs, she didn’t take any shit.
SAM
Unless you plan on buying me a new one…
ELLIE
Play damsel in distress by the side of the road?
SAM
And get murdered?
ELLIE
Cab it up baby or find a prince in shining armor
A lot of words to say she was screwed.
With a resigned sigh, Sam pulled the keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the car. She shut the door and leaned against it, fumbling for her cell phone in her black leather purse.
A noise nearby caught her attention. She glanced up and saw a bright red sign: KB Mechanics. Was life actually cutting her some slack for once?
No, it was probably closed.
But the sign was still lit up.
She shoved her cell phone back into her purse and started strolling down the street.
Samantha Hastings never imagined this would be her reality. The once-rich, spoiled girl now found herself living in the slump with a beat-down car.
Her family? Well off. Very well off. Nannies, maids, and all that jazz were staples in her childhood. Until the day she left the family home, she hadn’t a clue how to boil water. Everything had been done for her.
Samantha used to think she was content with that life. If she wanted something, she got it. It was not like she squandered Daddy’s money on wild shopping sprees.
Back in the day, she got scolded a lot—for playing outside in tomboyish clothes, rolling in the mud, or bringing home creepy-crawlies. Not the behavior of a proper lady, they said.
But she did it anyway.
Maybe that’s when her rebellion kicked in—overalls, pigtails, and the sweet taste of freedom.
Sure, they expected her to graduate, but no one was cracking the whip about grades. Be smart, sure. Hold her own with her father’s social circle, absolutely. But no one was telling her to become a doctor or snag an MBA.
She was a Hastings woman, destined for the life of a nice little wife, popping out babies like they were champagne corks.
Samantha wanted more.
And how is that working out for you, Sam?
Finally, she reached the mechanic store’s front door. A blue neon sign practically blinding her with the word “open.”
As she pushed the door, a bell chimed, announcing her entrance. She threw a quick glance around, but the place was empty.
Worn-out car tires cozied up in the corner, the floor played host to a collection of dark oil stains. Chunks of wood peeked through the desperate white paint, screaming for a makeover. Undeterred, she tiptoed forward, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone hiding in the back.
Her eyes scanned the counter until they landed on a battered red metal bell. A bit worse for wear, but hey, it beat shouting into the void. She pressed it, and the distorted sound reverberated through the silence.
Why did it feel like she was stuck in the middle of a horror movie?
Because your life is a horror show, Sam. What else did you expect?
“Can I help you?”
The moment she raised her head, she locked eyes with a guy boasting a pair of brown eyes. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat beneath the wool of the red sweater she’d thrown on over her uniform.
“Y-yes, um. I… My car broke down.”
The guy, oil-stained fingers and all, stared at her. Short black hair slicked back, a yellow shirt with various rips. “Where?”
“Just—just down the street. I was—I was hoping somebody could tell me what’s wrong with it.” She stumbled over her words, nerves getting the best of her.
She shifted her weight, a little dance of hope from left foot to right. “I’m crossing my fingers it lasts a few more months at least.” Once the wallet-stabbing bills took a hiatus, life would be a breeze.
Right now, though? It was tighter than a pair of too-small skinny jeans.
“We’ll have to tow it here.”
“Sure.”
So long, mind-numbing TV shows. Farewell, dirt-cheap bottles of wine.
“A’right. Hey Brooks, we need a quick tow,” he bellowed to someone still working in the shadowy depths of the garage.
The clinging sounds ceased, replaced by approaching footsteps as a blond mohawk made its debut, followed by a guy sporting a nose piercing.
Dressed in the same oil-stained chic, he had on faded jeans with spots of color peeking through beneath the knees. “Sure, where’s the car?”
“Hm, down the street,” she repeated to the new stranger standing in front of her. “Gray Chevy.”
“It should only take a few minutes. You can wait inside if you want.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Brooks left, leaving her to wait near the counter. The first guy was still holding down the fort at the counter. “Thirsty? Want something to drink?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“You can sit on that foldable black chair if you want. It’s the only clean spot we got.”
She swiveled her head and spotted the lonely chair; it would have to do. She marched over, plopped down, and threw her head back.
Minutes dragged on, morphing into an eternity as she waited, her feet begging for mercy after hours of standing. Please let this be over soon, please, please.
“Hey, James—got it handled.”
“What?”
“I’ll take a look at the car.”
Samantha straightened up at the new voice, its deep tones reverberating through her, making her heart pull a sprint. Why did it feel oddly familiar? She leaned to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of the new person, but all she saw was a mess of brown hair.
“Where is she?”
“Chillin’ on the chair.”
The stranger swaggered into view, standing tall like he just rolled out of a magazine cover. Dressed in nothing but jeans and a black tee, both miraculously hole and stain-free.
Hot.
As her eyes roamed from toe to head, she found herself entranced. The fabric of his shirt stretched across a chest that could double as a billboard for fitness ads. Hold your breath, girl.
A hint of stubble on a strong jaw, lips that were…nice.
And those twinkling blue eyes, that mess of brown hair doing a number on her senses. But the face…
Oh boy.
No mistaking those ocean-blue eyes and the smirk on his face. She knew exactly who he was and why his voice rang a bell.
Chase. Chase Bennett. Her brother’s best friend.
Those eyes had been the star of many of her not-so-PG-13 teenage dreams. Heat surged to her cheeks, and she barely managed to hold his gaze.
How in the world had Chase ended up here?
No, no, no. When she left home, she hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. Stephen hadn’t spilled any beans that would’ve hinted at this kind of plot twist.
The guy used to be top of his class, an MBA under his belt. Her brother and he were inseparable, partners in crime navigating the playboy life.
And now he was a mechanic?
Something wasn’t adding up.
And—and he didn’t look panicked at all. Oh. He didn’t recognize her.
No, it was probably better if he didn’t recognize her. That way none of this would make it back to her brother. The last thing she needed was to give him a reason to mock her. Or a reason to know exactly where to find her.
Sam turned her head to the side, attempting to tuck her chin into her chest. If she avoided eye contact, he would never make the connection.
“Is this about my car?” she blurted out, shattering the awkward silence.
He cleared his throat. Oh lord, why did that sound borderline sexy? “Hm, yeah. Brooks brought it in. I’ll take a look at it.”
“Oh, okay, great. Thank you. And sorry for the short notice. I kind of really need it to run again.” She focused on staring down instead of up, hoping the downward angle would help maintain her incognito status.
He smirked, and for a split second, a wave of familiarity washed over her. It felt like he knew…but he hadn’t said anything. Surely, he would have, right? “I’ll see what I can do.”
His eyes lingered for a beat, and she felt the heat of his gaze shifting away from her.
“I feel bad that all of you are working so late. Your boss must be a strict guy.”
He shot a knowing look to the guy lurking in the shadows before sporting a wide grin. “He is. A real hard ass, actually. A jerk, through and through.”
A flush crept across her cheeks before she winced. Crap. “You’re the boss, aren’t you?”
He laughed. “I might be.”
Samantha slapped her hand over her face, attempting to shield her embarrassment. How on earth did Chase end up owning a mechanic shop?
“Sorry,” she sheepishly admitted, suddenly fascinated by her shoes.
“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured with a chuckle as he kept scribbling on a piece of paper.
She wasn’t close enough to her brother Stephen to know what kind of contact they’d maintained over the years. She needed her family to think she was thriving on her own. She couldn’t let them find out she was fumbling at this too.
Samantha wasn’t the perfect daughter her dad wanted her to be. She didn’t want that life.
So she rebelled. She tried to attend school, she tried to find a career for herself, but of course—her father dismissed her. He called her irrational, that she was throwing a temper tantrum. Except she wasn’t.
All the freedom she thought she had—wasn’t freedom. It was a different form of control.
Samantha sought to prove them wrong.
Which her ridiculous ignorant self thought was an easy thing to do. On a whim, and through tears, she packed a bag, took the money she did have—not from her father, and left home.
Twenty years old, hopeful, and stupid.
She found a town she thought was far enough from home that her name wouldn’t help her and she…made a fool out of herself. Half her money was gone the first week because she had to find a hotel to stay.
She couldn’t afford an apartment.
Oh, and she learned she had no credit to her name, nothing. Now, there she was, three years later.
She had to do community college for almost two years before anyone would even consider her for anything. It had taken every moment of her time, only to still be at the bottom of the barrel.
Since Sam didn’t quite know what she wanted out of life, and her portfolio and resume were quite lacking, she was going for another round of community college. The next semester would begin soon…
No way her brother could know she ended up like this.
Stepping back, he turned his head, finally breaking eye contact. “James, wanna give me a hand?”
As he put some distance between them, taking a few steps back, the pressure in her chest eased, making it easier to breathe. It felt a tad childish not owning up to her true identity, but what choice did she have?
Chase paused at the door, his hand gripping the edge as he looked at her. Look away!
“Sam, I’ll let you know.”
Sam.
Wait. SAM HER?!
Her eyes widened as she watched the back door behind the counter close, Chase disappearing.
