The Thing About Three

chapter one | if he felt the same way

I FELT MY heart beat a little bit faster when I pulled up to Whitlock's Auto Care, and it wasn't because of the beat-up blue truck sitting in one of the bays.

It was because of the honey-blonde hunk of a man leaning over the engine of the truck, using a tool I couldn't recall the name of as he worked at loosening a part that he taught me all about that I struggled to commit to memory.

He heard me pull into the parking spot closest to him, his eyes finding mine through my windshield.

"Hey," I called out to him, stepping out of my toasty car and into the chilly, October air, "I thought you said you got everything fixed on that old rust bucket."

"You can't call a customer's car a rust bucket," he said, sending me a playful glare, "and I did get everything working, but it started leaking again and I'm trying to figure out why."

"It's old, that's why!" I told him, smiling.

"Why're you here so early? You've got thirty minutes to kill."

I just shrugged, not wanting to tell him that I was early because I was eager to see him. I rubbed my arms when a frigid gust of wind blew by.

His eagle eyes caught my shiver. "Come on, let's get you inside before you start complaining," he joked, setting his tool down and pushing away from the truck. He put his hand on my lower back, guiding me into the warm break room.

The gesture was friendly—a gentle touch on the dip of my spine. It wasn't meant to be romantic at all, but yet my heart hammered in my chest like he had just professed his love for me.

I glanced up at him through my lashes, catching his ruggedly handsome profile as he kept his eyes forward. I couldn't help but wonder if this action was spurred on by the desire to touch me. If he had been itching to be in my vicinity since he had seen me last. If it was driving him crazy not to kiss me right then.

If he felt the same way.

I knew that I shouldn't think like that, that I should recognize that he had been doing this for years and only intended for our relationship to stay on the friendship side of the spectrum. Anything else would be messy, and Dallas Whitlock didn't do messy.

It was my own feelings that had me questioning everything. For as long as I could remember, the affection of a cute boy—friendly or not—always made me feel things, and Dallas sure was affectionate.

We had been friends for three years, and I had felt plumb near every feeling with him. But the strongest feeling was that stupid four-letter word that the world seemed to revolve around.

You see, it's tough business caring so deeply about your best friend. Reason being is because they're your best friend. They aren't tied down to you by a restrictive label like "girlfriend" or "wife," so anything goes with what they want to do with their love life. And if you try to have a say in that matter, then you're just threatening the longevity of your friendship.

Unfortunately for me, Dallas was a real smooth talker with enough charisma to have a crowd at his beck and call. His handsomely masculine features and large build didn't help me much either. If his sweet words wouldn't make a girl fall head over heels, then his looks would surely hook 'em. And I've seen it all firsthand.

"You look real pretty today, Claire," he said to me, as if his words were casual and didn't send my heart into overdrive.

He smiled down at me, those vibrant eyes of his putting me in a trance. I can't ever give them a specific color with how often they change. They're either blue, or green, and sometimes both colors at the same time. On this particular day, they were as blue as the open, short-sleeved button up he wore, Whitlock's Auto Care embroidered across his left pectoral.