6. Graciella #2
“Don’t tell me what to do, Joshua.” I shoved at his chest, pretending I actually moved the giant of a man and he didn’t just take a step back to let me through. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
His deep chuckle slid down my spine, settling low in my body as I stomped away, needing some space before I did something stupid.
Punch him…or kiss him. I ducked into the bathroom and shoved the door closed harder than necessary.
The click echoed in the cramped space, the wood solid against my back as I sagged against it.
It was barely big enough to breathe, much less think about the life choices that had led to this moment.
Mint green tile climbed halfway up the walls, chipped grout creating a maze of lines and intersections.
Light streamed through the small privacy window, reflecting off the mirror above the pedestal sink.
I moved toward it, fingers curling around the cold ceramic to brace myself.
Reflected back at me were a pair of dark brown eyes with a frantic edge, tawny cheeks flushed a deeper shade at the apples, and glossy lips pulled between teeth. I tucked a black strand behind my ear, and the woman in the mirror matched the movement.
Get it together, Graciella.
I should be thinking about my pitch for Tommy right now. Not about how, for a split second, my overly romantic brain expected Monroe to say something sweet.
Relationships and love might not be in my future, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying romance. I wanted to be wined and dined and have sweet nothings whispered in my ear.
But that was exactly what they meant—nothing.
I gave myself two minutes to get my shit together and then marched back out with my head held high and boobs out.
“Come, we’re gonna be late,” I said, pulling the front door open to a man mid-knock, standing on the small porch, morning foot traffic to the college milling about on the sidewalk behind him.
“Oh, hi. Gracie?” He shot me an easy grin that seemed a touch too practiced.
“Yes?” I racked my brain trying to figure out who this shaggy-haired blond guy was and how he knew my name.
“There a reason you’re here?” Monroe asked, his arm brushing my shoulder, lighting up my nerve endings. “Actually, doesn’t matter. Leave.”
Okay, maybe it was hot when he barked out single syllables.
The guy stood a little taller. The movement jostled the red box clutched in his hand, and the metal banging against metal jogged my memory.
“My sink! Oh my gosh, you’re…”
“Jared,” he supplied, after a few seconds.
“Right, totally knew that.” A nervous laugh slipped out as his eyes wandered over me like I was a piece of meat, not seeming to care about the 6’4” wall of irritated man looming over my shoulder.
“What’s Jared here for?”
Monroe practically spat out the guy’s name, and I swore he was closing the already minuscule distance between our bodies. Cotton brushed against my back—there wasn’t enough room to slide a sheet of paper between Monroe and me.
“I’m her date.”
Monroe tensed at the words, and I winced. This would happen right as he was starting to like me. Okay, like was a little strong…right when he was starting to tolerate me.
I plastered on a fake smile, hoping I could release some of the crackling tension without getting majorly burned.
“I am so sorry, Jared. I totally forgot I had a meeting today.” I tried boxing Monroe out, but he kept creeping forward anyway.
“Why do you have a toolbox?” he asked, tipping his chin toward the guy’s hand.
“Oh, she asked if I could fix her sink.”
There was a pause. Both men stared at me as if waiting for an explanation. But before I could give one, Monroe’s fingers entwined with mine, his calluses deliciously rough against my palm, and he pulled me behind him, ignoring my protests.
“Sink’s fixed, Jared, and her schedule’s busy.”
The door slammed in the guy’s face, the frame vibrating for a few moments after.
“Well, that’s not a great start to cultivating a new image,” I said, hands landing on my hips.
Monroe’s back tensed, the white tee showing every ripple and dip of his muscles. “Why do you have a random stranger showing up to fix a sink?” He asked, turning around.
I shrugged, trying to keep my irritation in check.
“Any work I need done, I get a date to do it for me.” I flipped my diary to the page with my list of shit I needed fixed. “I get to check off a task, and it usually comes with dinner and getting laid. Win, win, win.”
He snatched my notebook from my hands.
“Hey, what the hell?” The sound of paper ripping filled the little studio. I stood there, slack-jawed, as he stuffed the torn paper into his jeans. “You just stole my list.”
“Come on. We’re going to be late.”
He yanked the door open, leaving it open for me to follow.
I ran after him. “You do know that I can write the list again. I still need those things done.”
His truck's engine roared to life, cutting me off. He quirked a brow from behind the windshield and whistled, tipping his head toward the passenger seat as if he were calling a dog to heel. My mouth fell open. The audacity of men was astounding. Retraining is going so well…
I climbed up into the seat, leather and pine tickling my nose. “A gentleman would have opened my door.”
“I don’t think a gentleman is who you go for.”
The air in the cab thickened with tension. It was hard to tell from his tone how he meant the statement. I shoved away images of the ungentlemanly things I’d let him do.
Time to change the subject. “New rule, Monroe.”
“And what’d that be?”
His eyes traced over me, the supple leather brushing my thighs as I shifted. Fuck, I wished he’d lower his brim again so he couldn’t see me.
“You need to get a diary so you—”
“Not gettin’ a diary.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Cute that you thought it was optional. Your notes app, then. A fucking stone tablet for all I care.” I threw my hands up.
“Regardless, you’re getting something, so every time you’re going to say, or do, something stupid—like, oh, I don’t know, rip out someone’s to do list and steal it—you can write it down and think over your life choices instead. ”
His jaw ticked under the dusting of stubble. The flaring of his nostrils drew attention to the slight bump on his bridge. A break when he was a player? I glanced at his ears, where there was slight cauliflowering of the cartilage. Something about his flaws was hot.
“All right,” he said, breaking me out of it.
He leaned over the center console, crowding my already small space and I swallowed, wondering for a moment who was really in charge here.
“Then I get a rule, too, Trouble. No more finding random men to complete your little tasks for you,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
That was the rule he wanted?
My hand disappeared in his much larger one, his callouses once again rubbing against me. The hold was firm but he was careful not to hurt me.
“Fine.”