“No, that feels amazing.”
“This is something you can do at home,” I said.
“I do, but you seem to have the magic touch.”
I chuckled. “I think it’s more accurate that you’re not doing this as often as you need to be.”
He scoffed. “Don’t talk to me like you know me.”
I bit back another laugh. I would not let him get under my skin.
I would not.
“I can give you this one to take home with you. Fifteen minutes on. Ice at least three times a day. Got it?”
“Do you make house calls?”
“You can’t afford me.”
“Name your price.”
“Six-thousand dollars an hour,” I threw out.
“I’ll pay it.”
I laughed again.
“I’m not kidding,” he said.
I frowned. “Um, what are you? Some kind of billionaire?”
“Not even close, but I can pay you to do a few house calls.”
I took a seat and leaned toward him. “Are you in some kind of danger, Gio? Do I need to call the police?”
He cocked his head. “Why the fuck would you call the police, Waverly?”
“If you’re being threatened—”
“What’s goin’ on in your head?”
“Well, honestly? If you’re being threatened by a gang or,” I lowered my voice and whispered, “the mafia—”
He burst out laughing.
I narrowed my eyes and demanded, “What’s so funny?”
“Because I’m Italian, you go straight to mafia?”
“Um, well, um... oh, my god, I... ah. Crap, Gio, I’m so sorry—”
He leaned in. “We just call it ‘the family.’”
I gasped and then realized he was teasing me, I felt heat creep up my neck.
“I’m not in the mafia, Fizzy. I’m a mechanic.”
“Mechanics can’t be made men?”
