Chapter Two #2
“Ollie.” He repeated it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth, and I needed to stop that train of thought immediately before it derailed into territory that was highly inappropriate for the side of a highway. Too late. “Let me take a look.”
He moved past me toward the open hood, and I stepped aside, trying not to stare at the way his vest stretched across his back or how good his ass looked in those jeans. I was failing miserably, but trying.
“He’s gorgeous,” Irene stage-whispered behind me.
“Dibs,” Greta said.
“You can’t call dibs on a person,” Edith hissed.
“Watch me.”
Diesel leaned over the engine, and I forced myself to look away. I needed to be professional. This was a business transaction. He was here to fix the shuttle, not to provide guttural fantasies for me and three seniors who were currently treating this like a spectator sport.
Like you’re not doing the same thing.
My eyes drifted back to him, watching the way his muscles shifted under the vest as he reached into the engine. The chain at his hip swayed slightly with his movements. Tattoos peeked out from under his sleeves, dark ink that disappeared into the leather.
Now I was imagining I was the engine and Diesel was moving that way over my naked body.
“See something you like?” Greta’s voice was right next to my ear, making me jump about a foot in the air.
“Jesus, Miss Greta.” I wiped my mouth, making sure I hadn’t drooled.
“Just asking.” She grinned, completely unrepentant. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re looking at that man like he’s a ribeye and you haven’t eaten in a week.”
Try six months.
“I’m not—that’s not—I’m just making sure he knows what he’s doing.”
“Uh-huh.” She patted my arm. “Sure you are, honey.”
Diesel straightened, wiping his hands on a rag he’d pulled from his pocket. “Alternator’s shot. Belt’s shredded too. I’m surprised you made it this far.”
“Can you fix it?” I stared hopefully at him, and not just for repairs.
“Here? I can get you running. But you’re gonna need a full repair. New alternator, new belt, probably some other work while we’re in there.” He looked at me, and there was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read. “How far are you going?”
“About three miles. We were heading to the senior center.”
Diesel gave a single, sexy nod. “I can get you running. Temporary fix. I wouldn’t suggest joyriding. Keep your destinations short.”
He walked to his tow truck. I followed. “Bring it to the repair shop first thing in the morning.”
After reaching inside the truck, he scribbled something on the back of a business card, then handed it to me.
“Here’s my cell number in case you break back down before morning.”
“I’ll find a coupon!” Edith shouted from her position by the shuttle.
Diesel frowned. “A coupon?”
“She has coupons for everything,” I explained. “It’s a whole thing. Just smile and nod.”
“Got it.” He turned back to the engine, pulling tools from his belt, and I stood there and watched, admiring every single inch of the view.
* * * *
It was too early, but Maureen had insisted on getting repairs started as soon as possible. Deluca’s Auto Repair sat back from the road like it was giving everyone space to mind their own business.
An L-shaped concrete building, grey and solid, with barbed wire fencing that said the place took security seriously.
At least a dozen motorcycles lined up along the fence, chrome catching the morning sun.
Customer vehicles occupied the right side of the lot, while three bay doors dominated the left.
The business name stretched above the middle bay door in bold letters.
The place looked well-maintained, which was either reassuring or meant they charged enough to keep things nice.
I pulled the shuttle into the lot, the engine making that bolt-gargling noise again. The temporary fix had gotten me through yesterday’s routes, but Maureen had been adamant about getting this handled before the shuttle decided to die permanently, preferably not while full of seniors.
The middle bay door was open. I eased the shuttle forward, and that was when I saw him.
Diesel stood under the overhead door, wiping his hands on a rag. Same gorgeous eyes, same impossible shoulders, same everything that had short-circuited my brain yesterday.
Through some window inside the shop, sunlight hit him from behind, outlining his frame like the universe was trying to make a point about how completely out of my league this man was.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. Yesterday had been chaotic enough that I could blame my reaction on stress. Today I had no such excuse.
Diesel gestured for me to pull in. The bay swallowed the shuttle, lights buzzing overhead. I killed the engine and climbed out, very aware of how small the space felt with both of us in it.
“Morning,” he said in that deep voice, tucking the rag back into his belt.
“Morning.” I managed to sound almost normal. “Thanks for squeezing me in.”
“No problem.” He walked around the shuttle, those blue eyes assessing it the way a doctor might examine a patient. “You make it to the center yesterday?”
“Thing sputtered the whole way, but we made it.”
“Good.” He crouched down to look under the front end, and I forced myself to look literally anywhere else. The pegboard. Very interesting pegboard. Those were some well-organized wrenches. My brows furrowed at a sign with the word “Pookie” on it in glittery markers. Weird.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” I asked the Pookie sign.
“Few hours.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “You waiting or coming back?”
“Waiting, if that’s okay. Maureen, my dispatcher, doesn’t have another vehicle available.”
“Works for me.” He gestured toward a door at the back of the bay. “Waiting area’s through there. Got coffee, some pastries. Help yourself.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Remote’s on the table if you want the TV.” He was already moving toward his toolbox. “Holler if you need anything.”
Following the direction he’d indicated, I pushed through the door into a small waiting area that was significantly nicer than expected.
A couple of worn but clean couches sat against one wall.
A coffee maker gurgled on a small table, and next to it sat a box of pastries that looked bakery-fresh, not gas-station sad.
The good kind.
A flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall, remote sitting on the table like Diesel had said. I glanced at it then back at the door to the bay.
Television had never really been my thing. Too many channels, too much noise, not enough actual content. Reading was better. Or people-watching. Or, apparently, mechanic-watching, if my brain’s current fixation was any indication.
I poured myself a cup of coffee—black, because I’d never understood the point of turning coffee into a dessert—and grabbed what looked like a cheese Danish and bit into it. Flaky. Buttery. Definitely from an actual bakery.
These guys had their priorities straight.
Through the door, I could hear the clank of tools and the squeak of something rolling across concrete. Diesel’s low voice talking to someone. Maybe himself. Maybe the shuttle. Mechanics did that, right? Talked to vehicles like they were sentient beings who just needed encouragement?
I took another bite of my Danish.