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O’Dowd Family Boat Building and Restoration stenciled on the side in bold white letters. Rich lowered his window when Patrick came around to the side of the car.
    “Problem?” the man asked in that lilting brogue.
    “Won’t start,” Rich answered. “You wouldn’t happen to have some cables, would you?”
    “We usually keep a set in the back. I’ll check.”
    While he was rummaging through the custom storage compartments in his truck bed, Rich may have sneaked a peek or two at his hard, muscled ass so artfully displayed in skintight Wranglers. He quickly averted his eyes when Patrick looked up and caught him staring. His mouth lifted in a half-smile, and he winked. It was unavoidable—it had been a long damn time since Rich had had a good, hard fuck; his dick hardened in response.
    Patrick looked sheepish when he returned to Rich’s car. “Looks like one of my idiot brothers must have used them and not put them back.”
    Rich sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Thanks for looking. I don’t want to keep you any later. I’ll just call a tow truck or something.”
    Patrick looked at him like he was a lunatic—again. “Are ya kiddin’? That’s a load of nonsense, that is. Hop in the lorry, and I’ll give you a lift. Then you can call for a tow in the comfort of your own home.”
    “The, uh…lorry?”
    “The truck, mate,” Patrick answered with a grin.
    A little anxious but too worn out not to be relieved, Rich nodded, jumped out, and locked the Camaro. “Appreciate it. I’ll just text Rory and see if he’ll swing by and pick me up in the morning.”
    “Nonsense again, boyo. I’ll be comin’ here anyway. I’ll pick you up as well.”
    Embarrassed, Rich hauled himself into the passenger seat of the massive truck. He gave Patrick brief directions to his home, then settled into uncomfortable silence. Rich wasn’t sure of the protocol here. He’d become friends with Rory completely by accident, and beyond any dealings with colleagues and clients or the occasional random hookup, Rich really wasn’t good at the whole human interaction thing—though he came by that flaw honestly. Most people were put off by him and his limited patience for…well, everything. But for some absurd reason, Rich wanted Patrick to like him, to even respect him, maybe.
    Clearing his throat, Rich decided to take a stab at casual small talk. “So…being in the boat business, you must do a lot of sailing.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back at the relatively intelligent non sequitur. That hope died painfully when he saw Patrick’s chiseled jaw clench and his hands turn white around their grip on the steering wheel.
    “Actually, no. I was in a bad boating accident a few years back. I don’t sail anymore. Don’t go on the water at all unless it’s required for a job.”
    Rich thought he might go into more detail but instead, another heavy veil of silence descended in the cab. He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but then thought better of it. When had his questions ever taken him anywhere good? It was none of his business anyway; he certainly had things in his past he preferred not to talk about, or even remember.
    With a sigh of relief, he noticed that they were nearing his neighborhood. “Take a left at the light up here,” he instructed. “Then the very next right.” The invisible hand that had been squeezing his windpipe ever since his conversational fail loosened as his little blue cottage came into view. Home. Escape. “Just pull over at the curb here.”
    Patrick obeyed, putting the truck in park and looking over at Rich. “Home sweet home, yeah?”
    “Yeah. I’ll be glad to see the end of this day.” Wow, he sounded maudlin even to his own ears. And what the hell was he supposed to do now? He didn’t ‘hang out’ with people. He had no idea what the accepted social convention was in exchange for a ride home—a handshake? A wave and a ‘goodnight’? An invitation inside? A