I do, fumbling around until I pull the right lever. He rounds the hood and opens it while I get out of the car and go close the gas flap I accidentally released. When I get to the hood, he’s already crouched under there, the temperature even worse from my hot engine. His capable fingers touch a square box and he pulls them back with a hiss.
Next thing I know he’s pulling his shirt over his head to use it as an oven mitt for his hand. He must fiddle with something, but I miss it all. I’m too busy staring at muscles flexing and bending and moving. He’s got a broad chest, sizable shoulders, and a fit waist. Holy shit. He’s got abs. Like, the kind you can count. I’m not sure any guy I’ve ever dated has had legit washboard abs. They were either a little thick through the middle from snacking at night while gaming or heroine skinny. Silas is something else entirely.
“Betsy?”
I blink and come to. Sweat drips in my eye and I whimper, the burning only adding to my misery. “Huh?”
“I said, it was just your battery cable. It jiggled off, but I reattached it. Want to try starting it again?”
With one eye screwed closed, I get back in the car and crank the key. It starts without a single ominous click. Air startsflowing through the vents. Not exactly cool, but any movement of air is welcome.
Silas pokes his head back in the car and gives me a friendly grin. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
“All good?”
I totally look. Damn. He’s even nicer to look at from the front instead of the side. My cheeks are hotter than the pavement below this car. “Yep. All good. Thanks.”
“Glad I happened to be running by.” He’s all smiles and sexy body and kindness and I can’t even look at him without ogling.
I grunt something in response. He closes the door with a soft clunk that breaks me out of my lust fog. He turns, tucking the T-shirt into the back of his workout shorts, broad back filling my vision. I remember my minimal manners at the last second and roll down my window in a hurry.
“You want a ride?”
Silas turns around, already ten paces away from me, and with that body on full display I’m already regretting the offer. “Nah. I’m only one mile into my run.”
I try to say something in return and fail. He chuckles and takes off running. I watch him go until he’s out of sight. Figure that’s best for safety reasons. I can’t be expected to drive a thousand-pound vehicle while he’s prancing around half naked. I look down at the rapidly melting ice cream and think about taking up my own running habit.
Do I even own running shoes?
With a sigh, I put the car in gear and head home. Forget running. I’m built for ice cream and Netflix.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Silas
“I’m not reallythe target market,” Betsy grumbles behind the velvet curtain that partitions off one of the two fitting rooms we have in the boutique.
“I know, but we can at least see if it’s good quality and looks like what we were hoping to offer.”
We placed a large order for clothes that fit all the parameters that Betsy discovered from talking to women at Mary London’s shop. I didn’t exactly have the money to spend for that big of an order, but I can’t go into the fall buying season or the Battle of the Boutiques with bare racks. It’s a gamble, for sure, but I’m confident in the findings.
Mostly confident.
The rings on top of the curtain scrape across the rod as Betsy comes out. She’s dressed in a sundress with ties at the top of the shoulder, a sweetheart neckline, smocking around the waist, and a hemline that hovers just a touch above the knee. The color is royal purple with gold stitching crisscrossing the ties.
I inhale sharply. For two reasons. One, that dress is perfect for middle-aged women to cheer on the Angels in the hot late summer sun. And two, because despite being a decade younger than our target demographic, Betsy looks stunning. Ethereal, if I had to choose a fancier word.
Betsy mistakes my silence. “What? Is it terrible? Shit!”
She stomps her bare foot and whirls around to stare in the mirror on the far wall of the fitting room. She smooths her hands down the skirt and twists this way and that, critiquing the dress. Her toes are painted royal purple, an interesting choice for a girl who claims to know nothing about our Angels. I blink, telling myself to stop focusing on her dainty feet like a complete weirdo. It’s just I never considered she had pretty feet inside those black stomper boots.
“No! No,” I say more calmly. “It looks amazing. Perfect, in fact.”
Her shoulders slump. “Why didn’t you say so? You had me freaking out. I swear this is what some of those women were describing.”
I nod, taking in the way the dress cinches Betsy in perfectly at the waist. The top is a little loose, but that makes sense. She’s not well endowed, a fact I probably shouldn’t know about my employee.
“It’s exactly what you wrote down.” I yank the curtain closed again, needing a second without her in my line of sight.
