Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A melia
I shift the last box onto the loft’s scuffed wooden floor the next day, glancing around at the space that’s as bare-bones as its owner. Fox’s loft is all sharp edges and muted colors—no pictures, no personal touches, just raw, functional space. It’s only my second day here and already I can tell it’s very him.
“This place is about as cozy as a cactus,” I say, injecting as much optimism into my voice as possible. “A bachelor pad, but with grease stains.”
Fox clears his throat, interrupting my organizing session as he leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes narrowing at me. “It’s a garage, not a five-star resort.”
His tone is sharp, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe? Whatever it is, I’m not letting him off the hook.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to add some charm.” I smile sweetly, setting a small potted succulent on his kitchen table workbench. “Step one: plants.”
He stares at the plant like it’s a foreign invader. “That thing’s not staying.”
“Oh, it is,” I counter, giving it a pat. “You can’t stop progress, Fox.”
“Progress?” He arches a brow. “You mean chaos.”
“Same difference,” I chirp, earning a low growl from him that sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear—something entirely different. “Like it or not all this clutter is going to give me a panic attack—relationships take compromise—you should try it sometime.”
A grunt is his only reply before he stalks off back to the garage.
Dinner is a disaster before it even begins.
I find a can of soup in his sparse pantry and decide to make the best of it. When I serve two bowls on his metal kitchen work table, Fox eyes them like I’ve poisoned his food.
“Don’t look so suspicious,” I tease, sliding into the chair across from him. “It’s Campbell’s, not arsenic.”
“I’d take my chances with the arsenic,” he mutters, picking up his spoon. “Usually just order pizza–”
“Wow,” I drawl, resting my chin on my hand. “You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
He doesn’t respond, just focuses on his soup like it’s the most important task of his day. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, and I decide I’ve had enough.
“So, do you talk during meals, or is this part of your whole grumpy mechanic aesthetic?”
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and unyielding. “You’re the one who won’t stop talking.”
I lean forward, grinning. “Maybe I’m trying to draw out your softer side.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Everyone has a softer side,” I argue. “Even you.”
“Not me.” His tone is final, like he’s shutting down the conversation. But I’m not done.
“Come on, Fox,” I press, leaning closer. “What’s your story? Why is the big, bad mechanic so scared of a little human interaction?”
He slams his spoon down, the clatter echoing through the loft. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Then why are you so determined to push everyone away?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think I’ve gone too far. But then he stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he storms to the door.
“Dinner’s over,” he growls, yanking it open. “Enjoy your chaos.”
He’s gone for nearly an hour. Long enough for me to clean up dinner, reorganize a few shelves, and regret at least half of the words that came out of my mouth. I know he spent time in the military, and I know that changes a man. Integrating back into society can be just as traumatic as being deployed—an internal battlefield. Just as I start to worry he’s not coming back, the door creaks open, and Fox steps inside.
His expression is unreadable as he kicks off his boots and hangs up his jacket before walking to the thermostat and punching the down button a dozen times. I watch from the couch, unsure if I should apologize or keep quiet. He beats me to it.
“You’re exhausting,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Do you ever stop?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Stop what?”
“Always talking. Smiling. Pushing.” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. “You’re like a damn avalanche in here, City Girl.”
I should be offended, but there’s something about the way he says it—like he’s more annoyed with himself than me.
“Maybe you need an avalanche,” I say softly.
His gaze locks onto mine, and the tension between us thickens. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something—something important. His grin slides to one side and he stalks to me, brushing my bottom lip with his thumb and then muttering, “Keep walkin’ around like you want me to kiss you and I just might do it, Princess.” He winks then backs away. “Goodnight.”
I watch him retreat to the loft, the door clicking shut behind him. I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Because for all his growling and grumbling, Fox Miller has no idea what just hit him.