Page 32 of Shifting Sands

“You act like you didn’t grow up here with us. We never had trust funds to work with, and we did just fine.”

“I know. But I’ve relied on my name and bank account to do all the romancing for me for the last decade,” I admit.

“And now you have to actually put in some effort, and it scares you,” he says, amusement in his voice.

“Scares? No.”

He raises a brow.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

The corners of his mouth lift in a smug grin. “Well, you came to the right place, bro. I’ve been charming the pants off womenwith nothing but this face and a McDonald’s budget since high school.”

I’m already regretting this decision.

“But for the record, I think you should just tell her who you are. It’d make the wholewooing herthing a lot easier.”

“That’s just the thing. I’m tired of taking the easy route. I want her to see me without the Cartwright racing dynasty goggles on. Just me. Brew, the bartender.”

“But you’re not just Brew, the bartender,” he points out.

“But if she falls for Brew, the bartender, then I know it’s me she wants, not the trust fund,” I say.

He nods. “I guess I get it. That’s never been a problem I’ve faced before.”

It has always been a problem for me. Women often see me as nothing more than a potential source of financial gain, and I can’t say I ever minded it before because I understood the deal. I didn’t have much time to worry about their intentions being sincere. I would take them out for nice dinners and shower them with expensive gifts, and in return, they would keep my bed warm for a while. We both got what we wanted from the relationship. Well, some women wanted more—a ring on their finger and a mansion by the beach—but I was never willing to go that far.

“Okay then, let’s go to Willis’s. We’ll get our hands greasy and brainstorm budget-conscious dating ideas,” he says as he stands.

Yep. Definitely regret it.

Brew

The smell of motor oil hangs in the air—thick, sweet, and oddly comforting. Sunlight streams through the dusty garage windows, illuminating the floating particles. Willis is lying on his back on the concrete floor under the Corvette, trying to figure out why it’s losing brake fluid.

“You sure you put the rotor cap on right, Anson?” I ask from under the hood.

He grunts, squinting at the part. “I followed the manual.”

“Manual don’t account for your kind of stupid, son.” Willis’s gravelly voice floats up as he scoots out from beneath the car and sits up.

“Greatest generation, my ass,” Anson mumbles under his breath, then turns to face him. “You want to do it, old man?” he asks.

Willis stands to his feet, arms folded across his chest, stained overalls hanging off his wiry frame. “I am doing it. Through you, which is somehow more painful than doing it myself, even with these arthritic hands.”

I smirk, flicking a socket wrench at Anson.

Anson shakes his head, slinging sweat in my direction. “At least I’m not the one who tried to use an American socket on metric bolts.”

“One time,” I mumble.

“One time is all it takes to screw something up real good,” Willis grumbles.

The three of us settle into a rhythm—Anson and me trading tools, Willis correcting every third move like we’re rookies straight out of diapers. Which, to him, I guess we are. He has owned this shop and has been fixing and rebuilding cars since the ’60s. Now, he sits perched on a wooden stool, yelling out instructions.

“All right, you got that ignition coil set?” he calls, not bothering to stand.

“Yep. Tight as your ass, old man.”

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