Trevor tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I hope it all works out for you,” he said, holding the door open. “And if you need anything, don’t be afraid to stop by.”
I nodded at him, got in my crappy old yellow Vitz and somehow ended up at the gas station down the road. By somehow I mean that my oil light lit up and my car demanded its weekly drink.
Anxiety balls clanged around my stomach, banging against each other as I poured another litre of oil into the engine. The appointment to fix its leak would have to wait now. Who was I kidding? It was way down the list. Somewhere behind replacing my holey underwear, and paying a qualified human to cut my suffocatingly thick mane of waist-length chestnut hair.
Someone cleared their throat behind me, and my pulse spiked.
I didn’t turn. One hand was braced against the inside of the bonnet, the other steadying the oil bottle as best I could. I was still wired from the meeting with Trevor, but I really needed every drop of oil to get in. Men approaching happened every time I stood in front of my car with my bonnet raised—whetherI looked capable of what I was doing or not. I’m still not sure whether I considered it sexism or chivalry.
“Need some help?” a deep baritone asked.
The vibration made something low in my stomach shift. At another time, I might have let him swoop in and feel heroic. Today, I just wanted to get the hell out of this town. I aimed for polite but firm.
“I’m good, thanks,” I replied, still facing the engine.
The wind picked up and blew the back of my green shirt, exposing the tan skin of my lower back. What was with the weather here? It was unseasonably warm for spring, and far hotter than home.
I nearly snorted at the thought. Home. Where was that now?
“How about with that?” the voice asked again as the wind continued to blow up the back of my shirt. The mischief was obvious in his tone.
Creep or hottie, creep or hottie?
I turned around, ready to start a slog of words that in my experience made men run for the nearest exit. These included questioning their masculinity and comparing them to my ex’s.
His brown eyes looked at me through hooded eyelids.
Ooh hottie!Tact change initiated.
I flashed him a smile.
He was wearing fitted black jeans and a black singlet that sat tightly enough to see that he had something pretty impressive to look at underneath. His shaved head made him look tough, but the laugh lines around his chocolate eyes told me otherwise.
Okay, I’ll play.
I sat back on the still-open bonnet of my car, my arms folded under my breasts, pushing them up.
“What makes you think you can help me?” I asked, channelling my best Jessica Rabbit impression. He shrugged effortlessly, the kind of gesture that made my hips twitch.
“Just a guess.”
He looked relaxed, like someone who didn’t try too hard, which was a turn on in my books. And it had been way too long since I’d let off steam. His boots stayed planted, his gaze held mine, and his hands rested low in his pockets. I tried not to follow them but failed miserably. The corners of his mouth pricked up wider, and two deep dimples appeared in his pale skin. I forced myself to look back up at his face.
Damn, this dude was steamy.
“Do you live around here?” I asked, gesturing my arm around like Trevor had in the office. This move also worked to let the front of my shirt untuck itself and expose my tan stomach—another genetic thank-you that I never needed to visit a sunbed.
Nothing erased the static in my brain like a stranger’s hands on my naked skin, for exactly as long as I let them stay there.
“Right here,” he said, jerking a thumb behind him. He took his hands out of his pockets, and I noticed the small two-storey workshop beside the gas station, which I assumed housed an apartment on top. Okay, that was a little too close. Something about it screameddesperate sex addict,when what I liked my pursuits to scream was empowered sex goddess. Andoh god Riley, yes!
“You live there?” I asked as one of his oil-smeared hands rubbed the back of his neck, pulling his singlet up at the front. That was one, two visible abs. Touché.
Andyum.
“Yeah. Well, I own it,” he shrugged, seeming less interested in this part of the conversation.
I was a hit it and quit it kind of gal, that ghosted as quick as my last boyfriend.
