by Ella Fox
“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”
I’ve heard him speak less than ten words—I must’ve done a mental count at some point—but I know the voice belongs to Donovan Beckett. The reason I know it is the awareness currently zooming through my body like a Bugatti Veyron going from zero to ninety in under two seconds. Dammit. All this time without his presence has done nothing to temper my reaction to him.
I rub my hands against my denim-covered legs and pray I’m not blushing as I wheel out from under the car. My breath catches in my throat as I find myself looking up at an annoyed looking Donovan. Arms folded over his chest, he’s staring down at me in a way that suggests I’m doing something crazy. Too bad his sour disposition doesn’t take away from his looks, because it’s really not fair that he’s so damn swoon-worthy. Sitting up, I wipe the back of my hand over my right cheek as I blink with confusion.
“Huh?”
Uncrossing his arms, he gestures to the car. “That car weighs several thousand pounds. Since you probably weigh a hundred after a large meal I have to ask—what the hell do you think you’re doing under there?”
Oh. No. He. Didn’t.
Standing, I put my hands on my hips and glare up at the giant jerk. As per usual, he’s dressed all in black. Johnny Cash would be proud.
“For the record, I weigh more than that,” I say stiffly. Only by six pounds, but that’s beside the point. “I’m doing an oil change,” I continue. “Which is something I’ve done hundreds of times over the course of my life. Do you have some kind of problem with that, Mr. Beckett?”
I’m highly annoyed, yet I can’t help noticing the way his too-blue eyes drop to my lips as his nostrils flare. When he brings his eyes back up to mine, he raises a brow. “Oh yeah? You’ve done hundreds of oil changes?” he asks in a dubious tone.
It’s official. In addition to being crazy gorgeous, Donovan Beckett is the most infuriating man alive.
“Yes, you big oaf. I’ve done hundreds—probably more than a thousand—oil changes. I’m guessing you think only men can work on cars?”
He glares at me. “I didn’t fucking say that.”
“Not those words,” I agree. “But your attitude and tone absolutely imply it.”
He stares at me for several seconds in silence. “I haven’t met a lot of women who know anything about cars,” he finally says.
I briefly wonder if it is possible for steam to pour out of the ears. If it is, mine must look like two teakettles that have been left on the stove for too long. “You need to expand your knowledge of women,” I snip. “Spoiler alert, we can do more than bake cookies and clean.”
His lips quirk for half a second before his expression returns to its typical stoniness.
“I didn’t mean it like that and I’m not looking to get beaten over the head with a whole women’s lib thing. I’m well aware that women aren’t confined to cooking and cleaning but thanks for the reminder.”
Turning, he stalks out of the garage without another word. I take a minute to get my heart rate under control as I walk over to my phone and turn my tunes back on. With Jackson Browne’s Somebody’s Baby on, I get back on my creeper and slide under the Jeep to tighten the drain plug. As I finish, I hear the sound of another vehicle pulling into the garage. I lie to myself for a few seconds that it must be someone else even though I know without looking it’s Donovan’s black Ford truck with the super dark window tint.
Wheeling out from under the Jeep, I grind my teeth together when I see that my guess was correct. Mr. Surly backed his truck into the garage and he’s popped the hood. Awesome—and by this, I mean awesomely bad.
“Are you allowed to be in the garage?” I demand.
Donovan looks over at me like I’m insane. “If it’s on the property, I’ve got permission to use it,” he answers. “Feel free to call Margie or Ron to check.”
Muttering under my breath about assholes, I look away. Forcing myself to ignore him, I get up off the creeper and start working on taking my car down off the jacks. I put the lift kit into position under the left front side of the car and turn the jack to get the lift up in position. Once it’s right, I step back and turn the crank to drop it down. I’m used to the loud sound, but clearly Donovan isn’t because he’s around the front of the car lightning fast. Turning, I give him a withering look as I pull the lift out and roll it to the back, where I repeat the process.
Every time I glance at him from the corner of my eye, I see that he looks way stressed out. Ignoring him, I go around to the other side of the car. When he follows, I have a sneaking suspicion that I know exactly what he’s doing. This infuriating man is likely going to result in my needing blood pressure medicine. After taking a deep breath to calm myself as much as possible, I turn and stare at him in exasperation.
“Are you seriously standing here spotting me?” I ask incredulously.
Dammit. He totally is. His expression tells me he’s no happier about it than I am. “Looked it up on my phone. That car weighs about five thousand pounds.”
Cocking my head, I wait for him to continue. When no further explanation is provided, I throw my hands in the air. “And?”
His eyes narrow as he stares at me. “Fucking ignore me and finish,” he growls.
Stupid overgrown man. Taking his suggestion, I pretend he isn’t there while I finish lowering the Jeep. As soon as all four tires are on the ground, Donovan walks away and I let out a relieved breath. I roll the creeper to the rear of the Jeep and then bring back my jack stands and then my lift kit. As I open the rear and lift up the creeper to put it into the boot of the car, he reappears at my side.
“Unfuckinbelievable,” he snarls as he bends down, grabs the lift kit, and sets it down in the boot of my Jeep.
That. Is. It. If this is his version of being a gentleman, it’s falling well short of the mark.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare up at him. “I assure you I was more than capable of getting it back in.”
He shakes his head and says nothing as he crouches down, grabs the jack stands, tosses them into the boot area, turns on his heel and walks away. I’ve never wanted to throttle someone more. Slamming the rear door closed I walk around the car, open the driver’s door and lean in to pop the hood. When I get to the front of the car and open the hood all the way, I hear him cursing under his breath.
I do my best to keep my attention focused on the task at hand while I bring the containers of oil over to the car and start the process of pouring it in. Still, from the corner of my eye I notice that although Donovan has his hood open, he’s not actually doing anything. I mean, he’s going through the motions like he is, but it’s becoming more and more obvious by the second that he has no clue what he’s looking at. Anyone can pull out the dipstick and look at it, but since he’s now checked it a few times, I’m realizing it’s nothing but a prop that’s allowing him to monitor me. Not for nothing, he’s checked the dipstick enough that I can tell he needs oil. I don’t think he knows it, though.
People are always stunned to realize I know what I’m doing with cars, so I get his surprise—even though he’s taking it too far. I was trailing alongside my grandparents learning about cars when I was knee high to a grasshopper and I started helping with oil changes when I was eight. I changed my first tire (with an assist when it came time to lift it into place) when I was ten. By the time I was twelve, I could do an oil change myself. Cars are in my blood and I’m confident in my abilities in spite of the many, many people who have doubted me.
With the oil full, I put the cap on, tighten it, and then set about disposing of the empty containers. Coming back around the front of the car, I wipe my hands on one of the old blue rags I keep in my pockets as I surreptitiously watch Donovan check his oil for the fifth time. With a heavy sigh, I walk toward him. It’s impossible to miss the way he stiffens as each step brings me closer. I’d ask if I smell, but after the night in the grocery store, I understand this is just how he is. Clearly, people are not hi
s favorite. If Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility were an actual thing, I have no doubt Donovan Beckett would own one.
Leaning against the truck, I look up at him. I try not to take it personally when he leans back, like being close to me is somehow offensive to him. It’s not like I had a plate of garlic for breakfast or anything. “You need oil,” I announce.
Glancing down, I note that his fists are clenched. This makes the tendons in his muscular forearms stand out and I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hands over his skin. He’s a tall man whose stance could cause one to feel threatened, but I don’t feel like that at all. Whatever his issue is, Donovan is not a threat to me physically. When he makes a low sound, I look up and meet his eyes. Surprise, surprise— he’s glaring at me.
“I don’t need oil,” he snaps.
I savor the moment and grin up at him as I prepare to drop the bomb. “Actually, Stretch, you do. I guess no one ever clued you in to the fact that the markings on a dipstick aren’t just there for decoration.” After taking one of my blue rags from my pocket, I stand on my tiptoes, lean under the hood, and pull the dipstick out. Holding it up, I gesture to where the oil line is with my free hand. “This clearly shows you’re low. Also, it’s thick and dark, which means you need a drain and change.”
The expression of disbelief on his face makes my lips quirk and I come this close to laughing. “The dashboard system hasn’t told me I need oil,” he mutters.
Sliding the stick back in, I shrug and stand up straight. “No computer system will ever be as thorough as a person. Not for nothing, if you get some oil, I can do the change for you.”
His body goes rigid. “Stay away from my truck.”
My brows shoot up in surprise. The defensive way he just said that could make a person wonder if he’s got a suitcase full of gold bars inside. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t—he’s just being a dick.
“You could try being a bit less hostile,” I huff.
“I have a guy,” he says gruffly.
I can’t help it—I laugh in his face. “Of course you do. Only someone with a penis is allowed near the engine of your big black beauty, am I right?”
He looks equal parts chagrined and infuriated. “I really don’t need this shit,” he huffs.
Still laughing, I turn on my heel and walk back to my Jeep. The sound of his truck hood closing is followed by the slamming of his car door. I keep my back to him and give no reaction as he starts the truck and pulls out of the garage.
Forcing myself to continue on, I go to the bench and pick up the wiper fluid I bought earlier. As I do, I try my best to ignore the fact that my hands are trembling. I don’t know why I react to Donovan Beckett the way that I do, but I don’t like it.
5
Eden
Once I got back from the garage, I showered and then took a nap. I could hear Donovan moving around on the other side of the wall as I drifted off to sleep, which made me wonder what he was up to. Surprise, surprise I dreamt of him—and in my dream, he’d kissed me in the garage. I woke up breathless and a little turned on, something I found alarming. Doing my best to forget about it I spent some time playing Boggle on my cell phone before I made myself dinner. I whipped up an easy favorite—a piece of grilled chicken and a baked potato with a side of cheddar broccoli, which was delicious. Now I’m getting ready for my first night out and I’m having pre-outing anxiety. Picking up my cell phone I compose a text for Julie.
Me: What are you wearing?
Julie: We do it UP here but I’m going kind of simple tonight. Blood red bustier, a black skirt that ends just below my ass crack and a pair of five-inch heels. Gotta show and highlight the goods
I stare down at my phone like it just sprouted legs. I literally have nothing like that to wear—not that I’d want to. Nibbling nervously at my lower lip, I try to figure out how to respond. Cough, cough I just came down with Ebola probably isn’t going to work.
Julie: Obvi I’m kidding
Praise the Lord.
Julie: I’m wearing a pair of black jeans with some low-heeled boots and a really cute off the shoulder sweater
I chuckle as I compose a response.
Me: Does this mean I shouldn’t wear my skintight neon yellow halter dress and Lucite heels?
Julie: Nah, go ahead and wear it. It might be the most excitement this town has had in the last few years.
Me: ha ha. I’m going to take a hard pass on being the town entertainment
Julie: Probably a good call. I’ll be there to get you in about 15-20 min
Me: got it. C u then
Heading into the bathroom, I take my makeup bag out from under the sink and set it on the counter. I’ve been blessed with really good skin, so unless it’s one of the rare occasions that I’ve got a zit, I never use foundation or concealer. I also don’t need blush, but anytime I go out I do a little something to accent my eyes. Taking my black gel eyeliner out I get to work on creating a winged liner look. It takes a steady hand and a few minutes to get it right, but when it’s done, it’s on point. I nod at myself in the mirror as I pick up my tried-and-true jet-black mascara. After applying one coat, I take out my lip tint and swipe it across my lips. High school was hell for me because I was teased by a group of obnoxious guys for having what they called dick-sucking lips. Before long most of the kids were referring to me as DSL, which was mortifying. What was worse was that the girls were more brutal than the boys. Because of that, I’m self-conscious and do my best not to draw unnecessary attention to my mouth. Also because of that, I have more guy friends than girl friends. If Julie and I continue hanging out, she’ll be the first girl I’ve been friend’s with in years. I was friendly-ish with my college roommates, but they were always weird about me going out with them or spending any time with their boyfriends. I don’t know why since in my opinion I’m the least threatening person ever.
When my face is finished, I run a brush through my hair. I put a little product in and air-dried it after my shower, so the style is simple but effective. Satisfied with my hair and makeup I head into the bedroom and take out a long sleeved form-fitting black top and a pair of blue skinny jeans. I finish the outfit with a pair of black ankle boots that have a four-inch heel. They don’t do much for my height since even with the heel I’m still short as hell, but I love them anyway. After quickly transferring my ID, some money, a container of Tic-Tacs, a hair tie, my room key, my cell phone, and some lip balm into my black cross body purse, I look myself over and decide I’m dressed appropriately. As I do, I hear Julie tooting her horn outside. Hurrying out, I climb into her tiny white Fiat.
“You’re going to have the guys hanging all over you tonight,” she announces as she puts the car in reverse. “And so long as Morrow isn’t one of them, I’m going to enjoy it.”
Julie talks about Morrow all the time. She’s crushing on him hard and is hoping that he’ll make a move sooner rather than later.
“Oooh, Morrow,” I tease.
“Every time I see him I feel like I just swallowed eight hundred packets of pop rocks.”
Before Donovan, I’d have thought that was an exaggeration. Now, every time I see him the fluttery feeling in my stomach gets more intense. I know now that it’s a real thing—even though I hate it. I’ve been telling myself that because I experience it every time I see Donovan that it’s nothing but nerves.
“Sounds painful,” I mutter. For the record, it’s not, but it is uncomfortable and damn unsettling. I can’t tell her that though because explaining about my fascination with one of the guests would make me sound ridiculous.
“Best feeling in the world,” she declares on a dreamy sigh. “Maybe you’ll meet a guy who makes you feel like that tonight. Either way, get ready to beat off guys with a stick you sexy bitch.”
I let out a pfft sound, amused by Julie’s assertion. If she knew me better, she’d know I’ve never been that girl. High school sucked, so no guys there. I dated a bit in college and even had a boyfriend f
or two whole months, but other than that, I seem to be invisible to the male population. Nine times out of ten I wind up being considered one of the guys. Need to know what’s wrong with your car? Ask Eden. Wondering what your girlfriend means when she tells you to surprise her? Ask Eden. Need someone to go to the bar with? Call Eden. Need a date? Call Eden and ask if her hot friend is available.
“I think I’ll be fine,” I answer dryly. “I never get that kind of attention.”
Julie turns and gives me a puzzled look before turning her attention back to the road. “Did you not go out a lot when you were at Penn State?”
I bark out a laugh because quite the opposite is true. Once I got away from high school, I flourished. During the first year of college, I struggled to balance my social life and my class schedule. After almost failing a math class, I’d gotten my act together fast.
“I went out all the time,” I answer.
She laughs as she shifts gears. “I’ll bet five bucks you won’t have to pay for even one drink tonight.”
“In that case, I can’t wait to take your money later.”
“Oh, money will be changing hands later for sure—but it’ll be you giving it to me. Tonight’s going to be so fun! You’re going to love almost the whole gang.”
“What’s this almost business?” I ask.
Julie makes a gagging sound. “Two things, really. First, there’s Sammi, who thinks she is the bomb,” she groans. “Somehow my friends and I got stuck with her after high school was over and now she’s like a barnacle that’s never, ever leaving even though we all want her to go.”
