by Moss, Brooke
Years and years ago, I’d left the seventh grade in May with the body of a pubescent boy, then returned in September with the body of a Playboy model. I’d inherited my mother’s curves and my father’s Puerto Rican good looks, and whether I liked it or not, men took notice. Annalise eventually took me shopping, introducing me to the fun of lingerie shopping and four inch heels. By the time I was sixteen, I’d grown fond of the leering stares and the way I could control men with the flip of the hair or the jut of a hip. Now that I was in my thirties, I used my looks to my advantage for everything from lowered insurance premiums to free mochas.
Hey, you work with what you got, right?
The kid in the coveralls smirked. “Yeah, right. My dad doesn’t work here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen, kid?”
“Nineteen,” he replied with a grin.
“Tempting, big guy.” I lifted my dampened hair off of my neck, and his eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. “But really, the sign says family owned and operated. Who runs this place?”
He straightened his shoulders. “Who says I don’t? Want a tour?”
This kid was persistent, I had to give him that. But I didn’t do the cougar thing. Not with boys that young, anyway. The youngest I dated was twenty-two, a full decade younger than me. I’d only done that because Candace had declared it inappropriate and morally wrong. And, well, I couldn’t let her win that argument, could I? We’d only gone out a few times before I realized I was in competition with the guy’s Xbox, and that wasn’t gonna fly. I stuck to my own age bracket or older, now.
“I’ll pass on that tour.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag, then slid my platinum card out of its worn slot. “But seriously, my car’s broken down on Manito Boulevard, and I need a tow.”
He laughed. “That sucks.”
“Sure does.” This kid was getting on my nerves. Pressing my lips together, I glanced at his embroidered nametag. “So, Trey, do you think you could find someone to run out there and get it?”
Trey put his hand on the edge of the truck and leaned back casually. It slipped, and he stumbled, then righted himself with a grin. “I might be talked into it.”
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you joking?”
Now, normally I enjoyed being flirted with as much as any girl—maybe even more—but today I wasn’t interested. Not only was this boy out of my preferred age bracket, but I was also an hour late getting back to work the day before a three hundred guest wedding. This was the last thing I needed, right now.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Aggravation crept up the back of my sticky neck like a spider, so I put my hands on my hips and leaned closer to the kid. He gulped. “Listen up. I’ve got a dead car holding up traffic out there, and a business partner who will fillet me and serve me up with capers if I don’t get my ass back to work. Understand?” He nodded, so I went on. “So how’s about you call your tow truck guy and let me borrow a phone, m’kay?”
Trey furrowed his dark eyebrows at me. “You don’t have a phone?”
“I left it at a restaurant, okay?” I snapped, wiping my brow. “Seriously, would it kill you guys to air condition this place?”
“Too expensive,” growled a low voice from the back of the shop, making Trey stand up straight and tuck his hands into his pockets like a good boy. “There’s a recession going on. Or haven’t you heard?”
Snarling, I peered around the edge of the truck. “How long have you been over there?”
“Long enough.” There was a scraping sound as a creeper rolled out from underneath a Honda Civic. “Judging by those fancy shoes you threw away, I don’t imagine someone like you understands the concept of a recession.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped.
“That’s my uncle.” Trey’s voice cracked, and he covered it up with a cough. “We’re business partners.”
There was a scoff from underneath the Honda. “Hey, Trey, why don’t you stop flirting with the woman and tell her whose name is on the lease?”
Whoever it was under that Civic, he needed a throat lozenge. This uncle’s voice sounded like he’d been gargling with broken glass for a decade or so. With a labored (or was that annoyed?) sigh, a man stood up and ambled towards me.
“Oh my,” I said under my breath, dropping my hair and smoothing down the front of my skirt.
This guy was appealing. And by that, I meant straight shot of heat right to the center of my belly hot. He was tall, taller than me in a pair of four inch Jimmy Choo’s, which meant around six feet, and that was enough to make me want to turn a backbend right there on the cracked cement floor.
“You are, Uncle Demo.” Trey pronounced the name like Thee-mo, the traditional Greek dialect rolling off his tongue like butter.
Oh, they’re Greek?
Demo sauntered towards me with a scowl. His dark eyes were hooded with thick black eyebrows, and a salt-and-mostly-pepper five o’clock shadow decorated the bottom half of his face. His dark hair, peppered with silver strands above the ears, was dampened at the nape of his tanned neck and stood in all directions. His coveralls were undone down to his waist, then tied in a knot at his hips, and all that he wore on the top half of his body was a tight white wife beater that practically sang next to his dark olive skin.
Demo, proprietor of Triple D’s Garage, was a bonafide Mediterranean stud. Not that I ever dated the work-by-the-sweat-of-his-brow type. My mother called dating men like that “slumming it,” but I wouldn’t go that far. I just didn’t find the rough hands, scarred skin, covered in sweat thing to be hot. No, I usually stuck with doctors, lawyers and executive types. The kind that wore suits made out of Italian wool and drove cars as nice as mine or better. The kind who spent their days immersed in paperwork and strategy meetings, not axle grease and transmission fluid.
Hey, I’m not stupid. I knew it was shallow, but the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, I supposed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned my attention away from the horny kid and onto his buffed up relative. Maybe sticking with the guys in suits was overrated. Candace always said her ophthalmologist husband, Brian, was at his hottest when he was mowing the lawn shirtless. Maybe she had a point. Slumming it couldn’t be that bad when guys like this were up for grabs.
I’ve got a Greek wedding to cater this summer. Maybe I can score a recipe for dolmades out of this. Work it, girl.
“Hi, Uncle Demo,” I said, sticking out my hand. I added a wink for good measure. “I’m Marisol Vargas.”
He pulled a stained grey rag out of his back pocket, and for a second I thought I was going to wipe off his hands before shaking my hand. But then he plucked a wrench off of the bumper of the Honda and started polishing it. “Demetrious Marcos Antonopolous.”
“Demetrious… Anan… pop… oh lous?” I grinned cheekily.
“Antonopulous.” He said it like I was a moron for being confused by his freakishly complicated surname. Then his brow furrowed even more.
The fire in my belly fizzled. I sure hoped he wasn’t in charge of public relations for Triple D’s, otherwise they’d be closed by the end of the month. “That’s quite a mouthful, Demetrious.”
“Demo.” His tongue did that rolly-thing that made the name sound delicious. But his mouth was still pulled into a disapproving frown. That scowl was most undelicious.
“Uh, okay.” I stammered on my words.
“How’s that pickup coming?” He turned his frosty glare to his nephew. “Clint will be here for it in twenty. You gonna have it done in time?”
Trey’s chest puffed up. “‘Course.”
“Then why don’t you stop ogling the lady and get back to it.”
Trey turned back to the truck engine and muttered, “Yes, sir.”
Demo’s focus landed back on me, and a shiver wriggled its way up my spine. I couldn’t be sure if it was from being turned on or just a reaction to the frigidity he was exuding. “I’ll get your car tomorrow.”
�
��Okay, thanks...oh.” My shoulders dropped. “Wait. What?”
Demo’s dark eyes rolled. Or almost rolled, as he seemed to be struggling to keep his disdain at bay. “I said I’d get your car tomorrow.”
“But it’s in the road.” I said dumbly.
“Is it pulled over on the shoulder?” He dropped the wrench into a nearby metal tool box, and it landed with a loud bang.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Then I’ll get it tomorrow. Or tonight, if you’re lucky.” Tucking the rag back into his back pocket, Demo used his boot to move the creeper underneath his legs. “Leave the keys on the desk and call around noon. Should have an estimate by then.”
“Are you joking?” I peered out the garage doors to where a bright blue and white tow truck was parked across the lot. “Why can’t you hop into that truck right there and get it?”
Demo started to squat back down onto the creeper. “Busted hose.”
“So it doesn’t work?” I snapped.
“It will once I get to it.”
I started to tap my foot. “Come on. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Demo stood back upright, and leveled me with a steely gaze. “Sorry.”
Growling, I pulled my checkbook out of my purse. “All right. Fine. How much will it take to get you to do it?”
“You can put that away, lady.”
Jutting my chin out at Demo, I whipped out a pen. “I’ll pay you twice what your towing fee is.”
“Sorry. Truck’s busted.” He kicked the creeper again. “I’ll…uh… hurry. I guess.”
“You’ll hurry, you guess? Don’t you have another truck?” I fished my platinum card out. “Maybe you don’t take checks. How about Mastercard? I’ll pay triple your fee. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Trey released a low whistle. “That’s a butt load of money, Demo.”
“Shut up, kid,” Demo growled. “Listen, I’m sorry, all right? You can’t just throw money around here. It doesn’t work like that, lady.”
“My name is Marisol.” My molars ground together. “And you heard the boy. It’s a butt load of money.”
Demo shook his head. “You may be able to wave your gold card around elsewhere, but around here, it won’t work. I’ll tow your car once the hose is fixed in the truck. Which will be once I get these other cars running.”
My hands went to my hips. “Hey, what’s your problem?”
He matched my pose, casting a shadow over me. “This is a first come, first serve garage. And you’re at the back of the line.”
I leaned closer to him. He smelled like sweat and gasoline and something else totally masculine that made my stomach tie itself into a square knot, against my wishes. “So move me to the front of the line.”
“Sorry, no.” Demo leaned forward as well. We were practically chest to chest, which would’ve been exciting, had I not wanted to clock him in the face. I’d have been intimidated, were I not so pissed.
I never gave up. Ever. When I was a child, my father described me as a “bulldog with a bone,” and things hadn’t changed much with age. When people said Eats & Treats was too small a company to handle their events, I low-bidded, then over delivered to prove them wrong. Everything I did, I did fearlessly and over-the-top. I’d learned by watching my father buy and sell commercial real estate in some of America’s hottest cities with the ruthlessness of a serial killer and the skill of a fine artist. He used to tell me that taking no for an answer was never an option.
I lowered my voice to a deadly decibel. “Yes.”
“No.”
Though I hated to admit it, I was taken aback. This jerk off was being rude. Like, really rude. I wasn’t used to men despising me upon sight. Usually it took a while, after a half dozen dates or so. I’d been called the B word more than my fair share of times, and most of those times I’d actually deserved it.
But never once had I repelled a man the way I was apparently repelling Demo Anton… Antop… Ann…
Whatever the hell his name was.
Time for a change in my approach. Taking a deep breath, I let my shoulders drop, and forced my scowl to melt into a smile. My narrowed eyes morphed into the heavy lidded gaze I used more often than I cared to admit, and I touched a fingertip to Demo’s chest.
Oh my. That’s firm.
Wait. Focus, Marisol.
“Listen,” I purred. “Can’t we come to an agreement? Why don’t you let your nephew take over the Honda, and you can slap a new hose into the tow truck for me?”
His honey brown eyes widened. “What?”
“Then after we get my car, you can run me to my job, and get back in time to fix my Beemer before I’m even ready for our dinner.” Batting my eyelash extensions, I let my palm rest on Demo’s chest, soaking up his warmth.
“Dinner?” he growled.
“Uh huh.” Smiling, I tossed my hair. Just a little. “Where are you taking me?” I felt a thump underneath my palm and did a mental fist pump. Worked like a charm. Like always.
Demo’s hand caught my wrist, making me gasp.
Okay, that was kinda hot. Maybe Annalise was wrong about blue-collar men.
Then he guided it—not so gently—back down to my side. “You honestly think I’m going to fall for that?”
Heat washed over my face. “I… well, yeah.” I didn’t even have a smart-mouthed response for Demo. This was new territory for me.
Trey laughed, and the engine he was working on muffled the sound. “I would have.”
Snorting, I hissed, “Then you should’ve offered to fix the tow truck before Dudley Do-right got involved.”
Demo raked a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Look, lady—”
“Marisol,” I barked. Rude bastard. I’d said my name at least three times already.
“Look, Marisol, you’re fourth in line.” He backed away from me, and scooped up a rusted tool off of the ground. “I’ll get you car as soon as I can, then I’ll call you with an estimate. If you don’t like what I can do, you’re free to take your business somewhere else.”
“But Demo, there aren’t any garages for, like, seven miles.” Trey raised his head and banged it on the truck hood. Again. “Ow. Damn.”
“Then that’s something she might need to consider.”
I looked down at my feet and grimaced. They were already black on the bottom, and my pedicure was shot. And thanks to this peculiar little mid spring heat wave, I’d already tested the capability of my deodorant enough for one day. Plus, if I didn’t get back to Eats & Treats soon, Lexie was going to serve my backside on a platter with beluga and water crackers at tomorrow’s wedding.
Releasing a long, guttural sigh, I rolled my eyes at Demo-the-mechanic. “Fine. Have it your way.”
One of his eyebrows tugged upward. “You sure ‘bout that, your majesty?”
My hands clenched into fists involuntarily. I hated being at this jerk’s mercy. “I don’t really have another choice, do I?”
“Well then, like I said, leave your keys on the desk with your number.” Demo turned away from me, and I spotted the edge of a huge tattoo that sat between his shoulder blades. It looked like Greek lettering, and I couldn’t make out what the symbol was, but was surprised it wasn’t something random and tacky. Guys like this had ink of the silver naked lady holding a bong or the Tasmanian Devil covered in blood. Tacky crap like that. This Demo character had kitsch written all over him.
“Got it. And don’t think we’re doing that dinner anymore, big guy. You lost your shot.” Striding past Trey, who was watching us with pointed interest from underneath his alcove of engine, I slammed my keys down onto the filthy metal desk sitting near the office door. Then I bent at the waist making sure he had a perfect view of my backside while I scribbled my number onto a dusty scrap of paper with a chewed up pencil.
“I’ll try to deal with the disappointment.” He squatted back down on the creeper.
“Right,” I said through grit teeth, turning towards the o
pen garage doors to leave. “Now to find a payphone. There's no way I'm using that culo limpie’s phone right now.” I added that last part under my breath as I padded towards the sunlight, in search of a payphone.
“What does my being an asshole have anything to do with you needing a payphone?” Demo called from behind me.
I froze and shot a lethal glare over my shoulder. For the first time since emerging from under that Honda, Demo Anton…ant…on…pop….whatever his last name was, was smiling as he lay half covered by the dented blue metal.
“You speak Spanish?” I snarled.
“Yup. Greek, too.” His smile faded. “Surprised, Princess?”
A plethora of snarky responses came to mind, but I decided to go for the jugular this time. “No. You can learn anything in prison. I’ll bet you made some lovely license plates, too. Maybe even the one on my Beemer.”
He rolled himself back under the Honda, and out of sight. “Oκύλα.”
Smirking, I took off walking across the hot pavement in my bare feet, his laughter ringing out behind me. If he thought I didn’t know he’d just called me a bitch in Greek, he was more stupid than I’d pegged him to be.
Like I said, I’d been called that plenty of times before.
Chapter Three
“I think he’s gay.” I threw a handful of shelled peas into the bowl with more strength than I anticipated and they rolled back out the other side.
“Easy there, turbo.” Lexie looked at me with raised eyebrows.
When I’d marched into work three hours later than promised, she’d been ready to live up to her redheaded reputation. I could practically smell the curse words in the air. But one look at my blackened feet and sweat soaked blouse, and her anger had quickly melted into amusement. Apparently riding a city bus back to work without shoes or my blessed iPhone was punishment enough, and she’d promptly handed me a water bottle. Now we were working into the evening to get ready for an event the next day.
“You know, just because a man doesn’t roll over and let you scratch his belly the minute you look at him doesn’t make him gay,” Candace said, picking up the stray peas.
