By the time I finish, I’m nearly out of breath.
Miles gives me a slow, disbelieving shake of the head. “And you’ve been doing this for over three weeks now?”
“Basically.” I shrug.
“And you’re writing a book? What’s the book about?”
I grimace at that question. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting work done.”
“Why won’t you tell me what you’re writing?” he asks, his head flinching back at my curt response.
“Because it weirds people out.”
“How so?”
“If I tell you that, then I’ll be answering your question, and I don’t want to answer your question.”
“I won’t judge!” he argues, grabbing his beer and taking a drink.
I roll my eyes. “You’ll judge.”
This makes him chuckle with disbelief. “I mean, it’s pretty much obvious now.” I purse my lips, and he finally gives up. “Okay, fine, we don’t have to talk about what you’re writing.” I sag with relief. “Although, I will tell you I’m a bit of a historical fan, so if you tell me you’re writing the next Game of Thrones, we’ll basically have to get married and live happily ever after.”
This makes me giggle so hard, I nearly spew out the beer in my mouth. We’re interrupted by the pizza’s arrival, and since I still haven’t had any protein for the day, we drop what we’re talking about and focus on the food. The slices are bigger than my face, and we both carefully fold a piece in half and tuck into it like starved animals.
Even after three breadsticks, I’m still hungry enough to finish a whole huge slice, which is nothing compared to Miles’s three slices. He just double-stacked the last two into a pizza sandwich. A pizza sandwich! I marvel at where the hell that all goes because his body looks shredded beneath that stretch cotton shirt.
Another beer later, I finally ask the question that’s been in the back of my mind. “So are you going to tell anyone?”
His brows lift. “Tell them there’s this hot redhead frequenting the waiting room and could we please get rid of her? Um, pass.”
I giggle again. Goddamnit, this guy is turning me into a damn girlie girl. “Do you think anyone else knows about me?”
He shakes his head. “No, I asked my buddy Sam, who works at the front counter, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Will he say anything?”
“Nah, we’re friends.”
This relaxes me. “So you’re a mechanic then?” I ask, realizing I’ve been doing nothing but talk about myself.
“Yep,” he replies, wiping his mouth and sitting back in his seat, his long legs spread wide, his big feet taking up all the space between our chairs. “I started in bodywork, paint and some design stuff, but I got tired of wearing the gear, so I went back to school for mechanics. It’s a good gig. Decent pay. Easy hours. No weekends.”
“I know,” I groan obnoxiously. “I hate that you guys close on the weekends.”
That makes him chuckle. “Don’t you ever take a break?”
I shake my head. “I’m a workaholic. It’s the book business. The faster you release, the more you stay in people’s minds. I was lucky to have my first book break out, and I don’t want to lose that momentum.”
He nods thoughtfully. “That’s why you work through lunch.”
I shrug. “That and sometimes I forget to eat.”
He huffs out a polite laugh and adds, “Well, I think it’s incredible that you write. I can’t even think of enough words for my weekly email to my parents.”
“Where do your parents live?”
“Utah. I was born and raised there. I came to Boulder for college. Well, tech school, I should say.”
“That’s a long way to go for tech school. Surely, they had places like that in Utah?” I pry.
He gets an uncomfortable look in his eyes. “I was following a girl.”
“Ooh, yikes. Did I just stumble into a sore subject? You’ll have to tell me when I push too far. I’m a writer, so I’m curious about relationships by nature. My instinct right now is to shoot rapid-fire questions at you about this woman and what happened between you two, but say the word and I won’t.”
“Word,” he says instantly, his face losing all humor.
I swallow slowly. “Got it. No ex-girlfriend talk.” This works well for me too because who wants to hear about the fact that I still technically live with my ex?
“I mean, I’m over her,” he offers, “but I don’t like to think about her.”
I nod knowingly. “I know the feeling.”
Our eyes lock for a tense moment, and it’s as if our bodies have some instinctual understanding that our minds haven’t caught up to yet. You can almost hear the sexual tension crackling like dry kindling in a fire.
Miles clears his throat and states, “Well, Red, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He gives a silly ‘Scout’s honor’ pose and adds, “If you’re all done, we should head back to Tire Depot for my bike.”
“That’s right!” I exclaim and quickly stand from my chair. “Yes, I’ll totally take you back.” My eyes wander off for a moment before I add, “You don’t happen to have a key to the Customer Comfort Center, do you?”
“Mercedes!” he chastises and stands up in front of me, grabbing my shoulders in his big, manly paws. “You need a damn break, girl. Working this hard can’t be good for your ‘vibe’ or whatever you called it.”
I stare down at his warm hands on me. They are rough and hard looking, but not greasy, as one might expect of a mechanic. And the way his mouth curved when he said vibe has managed to send an instant jolt of awareness through my entire body. I actually feel my pelvis tilting toward him like it’s developed a mind of its own.
“What do you do when you’re not working?” I husk, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. Did I seriously say that out loud? Jesus Christ, Kate. Get hold of yourself. This isn’t one of your books!
Miles seems amused by my mortification, but then a wall comes down over his features, something that I haven’t seen before. “I like to…ride my motorcycle. Hike. Read. Occasionally, I go to the lake.”
I purse my lips together and nod. “Cool, I’ll go shopping for a Harley this weekend.”
“You do that.” He smiles and throws his arm around my shoulders in a friendly, bro sort of way. “Come on, let’s get out of here before I start boring you with why you should get an Indian instead of a Harley.”
I giggle at that. “Oh, mechanic talk, sounds kinky.”
You know that moment in the movie Sandlot when Squints sees the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, walking on the sidewalk? He quickly cleans his Coke-bottle glasses with his shirt, romantic music swells, and the video shifts to slow motion of the curvy blonde?
Well, for the next week at Tire Depot, I’m the creeper, Squints, and Miles is Wendy frickin’ Peffercorn.
The first day I came back to write after Miles and I had pizza together, I ended up stopping at the open garage door in the back alley. I had a perfect view of Miles hard at work, and I just stood there, laptop bag on my shoulder, jaw dropped, heart racing.
He was stacking a bunch of tires. So many tires. They must have just gotten a shipment in or something because he was sweating profusely. At one point, he stopped what he was doing, unzipped his charcoal coveralls and pulled them off his shoulders to cool down. He was wearing another one of those hot, tight athletic tanks. Nike brand. Black. But I could tell it was soaked through with sweat. His arms were glistening in the light as he wiped his brow on his grease-covered forearm. He grabbed a bottle of water, took several long drinks, his thick neck contracting with each swallow, and proceeded to pour the remaining contents down his face.
You just can’t make this shit up!
The next moment, he turns to look over his shoulder at a co-worker, and his blue eyes were glowing so brightly against his tan complexion that he didn’t seem real. I seriously felt my knees wobble and it wasn’t because I skipped lunch that day.