Like,reallygood.
“There. See that coupling? You need to wrench it counterclockwise.” I point at the connection that’s giving us trouble. “No, tighter grip. Use your whole body weight.”
He adjusts his stance, and applies the kind of controlled force that makes my mouth go dry for reasons that have nothing to do with diesel fuel.
His fifty-thousand-dollar watch gets smeared with grease. He doesn’t even notice.
“Hand me that duct tape.” I’m directing this operation like a surgical procedure. “Now hold this steady while I... yes, perfect, don’t move.”
I’m supposed to be focused on the repair. I’m supposed to be thinking about fuel lines and couplings and how to jury-rig a seal with the materials we have available.
Instead I’m thinking about how his jaw clenches when he’s concentrating. How he follows my instructions without question or ego, trusting me completely even though this is so far outside his usual world it might as well be another planet.
It’s unfairly attractive.
He starts getting warm. Peels off his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves.
Oh no.
Because now I can see the flex and release of muscle as he works. The way his shoulders move. The way his forearms cord when applying pressure to a stubborn connection.
“What?” he asks without looking up.
Busted.
“Nothing.” My face is definitely red and it has nothing to do with the cold. “Just... you’re good at following directions.”
His mouth quirks. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
But Iamsurprised. This is Gregory Falk, billionaire CEO, who dominated and utterly ravished me last night, now taking orders from me without complaint.
The work is frustrating.
Connections won’t budge.
Seals won’t hold.
I’m muttering curses under my breath while he patiently follows every instruction I give.
Every brush of contact reminds me of last night.
When his hands slip on a bolt, my smaller fingers guide his grip to the right angle.
When I can’t reach a connection deep in the mechanism, he holds me steady while I lean in, his hands on my waist sending heat through six layers of clothing.
When my hands steady his shaking fingers on a delicate seal, he catches my wrist and brings it to his mouth. Takes off my glove and kisses my palm right in the center.
“Thank you.” His voice is rough. “For knowing how to do this. For being brilliant.”
My entire body flushes with warmth.
This man is going to be the end of me.
By four thirty in the afternoon, we’ve repaired the fuel line and siphoned the diesel from the Kubota back at the equipment shed.
I have to teach him how because of course I do. He watches me with intense focus as I explain the process.
When we bring the fuel back and fill up the tank, the generator finally roars back to life.
