Accidentally Amy(39)

“So Paris for dinner sounds good,” she said, reaching out a hand to tug on the strings of his hoodie. “But only if we wear berets. Do you have a beret?”
“Negative. No one looks good in a beret.”
“Audrey Hepburn did,” she said.
“Debatable,” he replied. God, he was so into the way he never knew what was going to come out of her mouth that it had become problematic. He texted and called her way too often, but honestly - talking to her was all he ever wanted to do. He said, “And no berets.”
“Fine.” She grinned, giving him her full-scale smile as she leaned back on her arms. “How about dinner in Tuscany?”
You’re picky,” he said, leaning down to rub his nose against her collarbone because something about it was driving him wild, “And real Italian spaghetti is nothing like what you’re used to. I’m afraid you’ll starve.”
He lifted his head and wondered how a smartass smirk could make him feel so unbalanced.
“So Italy is out, then, because obviously spaghetti is the only possible dinner item.” She pursed her lips, like she was seriously considering their options, and said, “Then all that’s left is Johnny’s Steakhouse down on L Street, I guess.”
“Perfect,” he said, needing to kiss her again. He lowered his mouth, hypnotized by the way she looked at him, and just when his lips touched hers she said,
“But I can’t go with you to your garage now.”
He pulled back from the kiss. “Why not?”
“You know.” She shrugged and rubbed her nose against his, soft and slow as her breath touched his lips, and it caused a bizarre physical reaction. The movement made something in his chest pinch, and now he was convinced he was losing his mind, because fucking chest pinches in response to physical contact were not a real thing for grown-ass adults.
“I do not know,” he managed, and pulled back a little father. “You’re bailing on me?”
“Here’s the thing, Mister Chest,” she said, scooting over on the table just enough to drop her feet to the floor and stand. He watched as she tucked her hair behind her ears, took a deep breath, then hit him with, “If I see you in coveralls with a wrench in your hand, there’s no telling where the afternoon will go. And as lovely as that…imagining sounds, I really want to go on a date with you tonight.”
“Dammit, Shay,” Blake bit out through gritted teeth as sexual images of he and Izzy on the trunk of her car came at him, “I told you I don’t have coveralls.”
That made her snort and tap her forehead with her index finger. “But you do up here.”
He couldn’t hold back the smile, just like he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and giving her ponytail a tug. “So I have to go to Springfield by myself because you’re a little pervert?”
She shrugged again and said around a giggle, “So it would seem.”
“That's not fair.”
“Life isn't fair.”
“You’re an asshole,” he said, pulling his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans. “Did you know that?”
“An asshole who will Facetime you through the entire repair.” She slid her fingers through his and pulled him behind her, through the kitchen and toward the door. Her small hand in his, tugging him along, caused that fucking idiotic chest-pinch thing again, which would’ve pissed him off if she hadn’t made him laugh by saying, “The only difference will be that I cannot digitally goose you while you lean over my engine.”
“You would’ve goosed me?” he asked, releasing her hand to mess with the tendrils around her face that had fallen out of her ponytail. “Digitally?”
“Ohmigod, you know what I mean,” she said, laughing and batting at his hands. “I was referring to the method of communication, not the method of goosing.”
She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him then, and he was still grinning like an idiot when he climbed into his car and put the keys in the ignition, twenty minutes later. He was about to pull away when the phone buzzed in his pocket.
He expected it be his little smartass, but it was an email from his Brad, instead. He was miles away from caring enough to read it - it was Saturday, for God’s sake - when he saw the subject line.
Re: Reconfigured Org Chart - V.2 (revised)
"Sonofabitch." Blake got that feeling in his gut, the one that told him he was going to fucking hate that message, and he rubbed his temple with his fingers. Shit, shit, shit.
But just as he was about to click the link, he closed the email app, instead.
"Nope," he muttered to himself, putting the phone back in his pocket and buckling his seat belt. He pulled away from the curb, stood on the gas pedal, and made the decision to ignore his messages until Monday morning.

Chapter 13

Izzy
“Yeah, baby, right there,” Izzy moaned.
“Shut up,” he grunted through gritted teeth.
“But honey, the way your shirt is riding up so I can see your lower back is just working for me,” Izzy said, really doing her best to sound disgusting. “I know I told you I’d stop, but it’s impossible for me to keep from losing my shit when you’re tossing all of this car-fixing-porn in my face.”
“Has anyone ever told you,” Blake panted, obviously struggling to do something to the new alternator he was installing in her vehicle, “that you’re an obnoxious pain in the ass?”
“Oh, tons of people. All the time. But don’t change the subject.”