The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) by Rebecca Grace Allen Page B

taking this job if we can make a profit.” He handed Dean a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of everything we need. Get the best price you can. There’s a wrecking service in New Hampshire that might have it all, if you don’t have any luck locally.”
    Anticipation that Dean never should’ve felt in the first place sputtered out of him like a fizzling spark plug. This wasn’t about the two of them, or loving cars at all. This was Dean being sent on a mission to hunt down the lowest price.
    Resentment pressed at his sternum, a fire that wouldn’t take much air to feed. Dean gritted his teeth and stared at the floor, words he wanted to say like a tornado in his head.
    I don’t want to keep doing this.
    There’s got to be a better way.
    He kept his mouth shut. They’d been down this road before: Dean made suggestions, his father ignored them. And he knew his place here. He might’ve been third generation Trescott, but he was a grunt man, a cog in a wheel, trying to follow through with the vision his grandfather had.
    It was fine. The salvage yard wasn’t far from a seasonal antique car show he’d always wanted to hit. Maybe he could get Connor to go with him. Make a road trip out of it.
    He took the list from his father’s hand. “Anything else?”
    “That doesn’t sound like enough for half a day’s work?”
    “It is. Just want to make sure I’ve got it all covered. I’ll get started.”
    Dean launched himself out of the chair. Two steps later, he had his hand on the knob and was out the door. It didn’t matter that his father never listened. That was the status quo, and he needed to focus on work, to get jobs done and bring in more cash. He had no marketable skills other than this, so if the garage went down the tubes, he was going to be well and truly fucked.
    Out on the floor, Dean paged through the work orders and tried to lose himself in the sounds and smells of the garage. The hum of the air compressor, the sharp grind of the sander and snap of the paint gun. The tangy mix of gear oil, leather cleaner and sawdust. He’d grown up around them and could identify each one with his eyes closed.
    They made up his past, as well as his entire future.
    Dean shook his head and exhaled heavily. He didn’t know what he was complaining about. He had everything he needed in life. A roof over his head. Food on the table. Wheels to get around. Sex when he wanted it. Friends. Family. If he could only ignore this nagging part inside him that said he wanted more , that would be great.
    The bell at the front desk rang out with a high-pitched ding. Dean glanced over through the Plexiglas window.
    Jamie.
    Oxygen was suddenly hard to come by. Shit, last night must’ve really upset her, otherwise why would she be here?
    Dread settled like a dead weight in his stomach as he crossed to the door and opened it warily.
    “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
    Jamie heaved a dramatic sigh and parked her elbows on the desk. “I came to say goodbye. I’m pulling up stakes and heading out of town for good.”
    Dean’s heartbeat stuttered. He blinked. Several times. “You are?”
    “Gotchya.” Her face broke out into her signature grin. “It was a joke, dumbass.”
    He huffed out a laugh, the sudden relief palpable. “Nice.”
    She stood up and slipped her hands in the pockets of a puffy vest. She looked good. Adorable actually, but it didn’t seem like she’d dressed up for him, those crazy curls of hers wound up in a bun on top of her head. Nothing about her said upset at all. She was playing jokes, smiling, acting the same way she always did.
    It was a good thing. He knew that. But something about her easy demeanor nagged at him, buzzing around his head like a mosquito in August.
    “So what can I do for you?” he asked.
    “I need your help with something.”
    Definitely not here about last night then. “Okay, shoot.”
    “The photographer for Sean’s wedding got into a car accident. He’s on his way to