Page 13 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

“Beck—” I gasp, voice breaking.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, voice strained. “Come on, baby. Come all over my cock. Let me feel you.”

I come hard, clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through me. “Yes…yes, Beck⁠—”

The words slip out in a breathless whisper, the rest lost to the night sky. He thrusts up into me with a deep, guttural groan, spilling hot inside me as his hips stutter and his hands grip me tight.

I collapse onto his chest, trembling, as the cool breeze drifts soothingly over my back.

A twig snaps somewhere in the trees nearby. We both tense.

“Shit,” he mutters.

We scramble up, laughing breathlessly as we grab clothes and boots. Half-dressed, we tumble back into the cab with the blanket and the rest of our things, and he pulls the door shut behind us.

The laughter fades into something quieter. Softer. He drapes his jacket over my shoulders without asking, and I settle against his side like I’ve been doing it for years.

The valley is dark below us now.

The last light has slipped behind the western peaks and the sky is that deep mountain blue that only happens at altitude—not quite night, not quite day. Stars are starting to appear, faint at first, then everywhere.

I’m curled against Beck’s side in the cab of his truck, his jacket over my shoulders, my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat is slow and steady under my ear. His hand is in my hair, not doing anything, just resting there. Like he’s making sure I’m real.

“That was better than the view,” I say.

His chest moves under my cheek. Not quite a laugh. Closer than he usually gets.

“I’m serious. And the view is really good.”

His arm tightens around me. Just a fraction. Just enough.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

We sit there in the dark with the whole mountain around us and the town glowing below, and I don’t think about the outfitter or the coupons or the people who’ve never taken me seriously. I think about the way he said “somebody should’ve done it a long time ago,” like it made him angry that nobody had, and the way his hands shook when he touched me, and the way this grumpy, impossible, socket-set-reorganizing man drove me up a mountain to show me where my life was going to start.

I don’t say any of that. I just press closer and breathe him in and let the silence hold us.

He doesn’t fill it either.

We don’t need to.

6

BECK

Iwake up thinking about her.

This is a problem because I haven’t even opened my eyes yet and she’s already taking up all the available space in my head. The smell of her hair. The sound she made when she laughed in my truck. The way she curled into me like I was something safe. Safe is not a word anyone has ever associated with me.

I get to the shop early. Pull up the bay doors, start coffee, check the service schedule. A Tacoma needs brake pads. The fire district wants me to look at a pump issue on Engine One. Normal Friday.

Except nothing feels normal, because my phone has a text from a number I saved three days ago under “Wrong Number” and the text reads, Bringing you a coupon whether you want one or not.

She shows up at 8:15 with two coffees from Lea’s and a single coupon, which she tucks into the chest pocket of my shirt while I stand there holding both cups like an idiot.

“Ten percent off any hiking boot,” she says. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t hike.”