Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(14)
“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.
Suddenly, the billionaire I was writing about in my novel seemed all wrong. His six-pack too artificial. Sex appeal wasn’t created in a gym with weights and treadmills. No, it was born in powerful, grungy garages where men, real fucking men worked with their hands. Where they got so dirty, they had to use a special manly soap to clean themselves up. You can’t find that shit at Bath & Body. Pure fucking testosterone.
Feeling inspired like never before, I scurry off to the comfort center to take two pages’ worth of notes for a new series. Jesus Christ, why had I never considered a mechanic before? My readers would salivate all over this! I can’t help myself as I begin writing the first chapter, the voices of the characters so clear, I have to get them out. Right fucking now.
It’s hours later when I’m ripped from my fictional world by a strong, overwhelming presence in the room. I look up from my laptop to find Miles watching me from the doorway, his mouth tipped into a lazy smile. His eyes are smoldering with something I’ve never seen before.