Do they make me feel unbelievably desirable or like I’m worthy of a great love?
No.
But that’s okay. They give me orgasms and don’t hurt my feelings by telling me I’m working a “man’s job” or I should lose a few pounds. And if they die, I can recharge them instead of wondering what I did wrong.
Despite the fact I’m not looking for a man, I went home that night and instead of picturing one of the many men from my books while I used my battery operated friends, all I could picture was blonde hair and hazel eyes. I imagined what his beard would feel like tickling my skin as he did filthy things to me, and all the dirty words that would slip between his plush lips.
I came harder than I ever have.
The day after he was in the shop, I went to lunch with my mom’s best friend, Kelly, and told her about the weird interaction. I swear she was vibrating in her chair from excitement. Despite my arguments against love at first sight, the spark between us being just static, and the impossibility of us ever seeing each other again, Kelly insisted I keep an open mind.
“You never know when love will fall into your lap. You remember how your mom and dad met. Don’t brush it off just yet.”
I remember the stories my dad used to tell about how he knew she was the one the minute he walked into my mom’s hair salon. He kept going back to get his haircut every two weeks until he finally got the nerve to ask her out. They got married six months after their first date and then had me a few years later. My dad never dated anyone else after she died. He said he couldn’t give another person his heart because I held one half, and my mom held the other.
He was never the same after she passed.
I don’t want to end up like that, losing someone after giving them my whole heart.
Love is scary as fuck.
“Yeah, Saint Valentine,” Patrick says. “He’s back with more van problems.”
“Okay? So take care of it.”
“See, I would, but he specifically asked foryou. Says he’d feel more comfortable since you’ve worked on it before.”
The transmission on this doesn’t need to be done for two more days, so I have time to check out whatever’s wrong. I don’t know why he asked forme, but I like to keep our customers happy. Repeat business and word of mouth is how we stay open and the bills get paid.
With a heavy sigh, I stand from the creeper before heading to the sink to scrub as much grease as I can from my fingers.
Sometimes, I wish I could have soft, smooth skin and pretty nails like other women, but long nails would get in the way of my work, and any nail polish would just chip off. Maybe one day if I marry rich, I can stop working and have pretty nails.
Ha, like that’ll happen.
Even if I didn’t need to have a job, I would still work on cars for fun.
I’m nervous for some reason. Before I head into the lobby, I try to shake the feeling, but my heart rate picks up when I see him standing there, looking as handsome as I remember.
Saint Valentine from Cupid’s Cove, Oregon. His van smells like spices and vanilla, and I felt like I was ruining it with the smell of the shop when I moved it last time.
“Hi. Mr. Valentine, right? We met a few months ago.” I hold out my hand for a handshake, and his hazel eyes lock in on it. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me. Is he put off by the stains that are practically part of me now?
“Yes. Please, call me Saint.” His voice is deep and warm, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket. His massive hand grabs mine in a gentle handshake, and a shock runs up my arm.
This time ithasto be static from the mechanic dolly.
The way his hand engulfs mine makes me want to swoon. As a five-foot-nine plus size woman, I’ve never felt small and dainty, but standing next to Saint, I do. He’s got a good six inches on me, and his frame is broad. The way his black T-shirt stretches across his chest and clings to the softness of his belly makes something tingle between my hips. Dark-washed jeans hug his thick thighs, and I briefly wonder if they have to be custom made.
He looks like a lumberjack and a Viking had a baby with the blonde hair in a bun, the beard, the flannel, and the work boots.
“Saint,” I roll his name around on my tongue. Five letters. One syllable. Simple, easy to remember. I have to suppress a sigh at how good it feels to say. “What brings you in?”
He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and I flex my fingers against the warmth of his palm. It must bring him back to his senses because he drops my hand and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans while the other motions to the van in the parking lot.
“The check engine light came on, and I didn’t want to drive all the way to Cupid’s Cove in case something major was wrong. Can’t be breaking down at the top of the mountain.” He gives me a lopsided grin, his full, pink lips tipping up on one side.
It makes more butterflies flutter in my belly.
