Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
A melia
The smell of coffee still lingers in the loft when I decide to tackle the chaos that is Fox’s living space. I can’t stop thinking about the way he pressed his lips to mine last night, the rough rasp of his calloused palms on my smooth skin…and the disappointment I felt when I realized he was sleeping on the couch last night and not with me in bed. It’s only been a few nights but I’ve been here long enough to know one thing: this man might be a genius with engines, but he’s clueless when it comes to keeping his space livable. Tools piled on the kitchen counter, random screws scattered across the floor—how he hasn’t tripped and died is beyond me.
“Okay, Mr. Grump,” I mutter, tying my hair into a messy bun. “Time to bring some order to the cave, caveman.”
I start with the kitchen, scooping up bolts and wrenches, and moving them to a small tool chest I found shoved under the sink. I hum a little tune, pausing to sip the lukewarm coffee I made earlier. My notebooks, laptop, and camera gear are spread out on the table, and I figure he won’t mind me claiming a corner. If he didn’t want me here, he could have said no, right?
The thought makes me smirk. Fox Miller wouldn’t say no to a stray kitten, let alone a stranded woman. Beneath that grumpy exterior is a man who’s way too soft for his own good—he just hasn’t figured it out yet.
By the time I hear the crunch of gravel outside later, I’ve rearranged the kitchen counters, wiped down the sink, and started folding the throw blanket he leaves crumpled on the couch. The loft actually looks...inviting.
The door swings open, and there he is, all broad shoulders and irritated scowl. His boots thud against the floor as he steps inside, immediately freezing when he sees what I’ve done.
“What the hell is this?” His voice is sharp, his brows furrowed as he surveys the room like I’ve rearranged the planets.
“You’re welcome,” I chirp, setting the blanket down and turning to face him. “Your kitchen counters are no longer a health hazard, and I found a perfectly good tool chest under the sink. You’re a whole new man now.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle there ticking. “Amelia, where are my tools?”
“In the tool chest.”
“Which is where?”
“Under the sink,” I say slowly, as if explaining to a toddler. “You know, where tools belong.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering something I can’t quite catch. “I had everything exactly where I wanted it.”
“Right. Because everyone loves finding spark plugs in their cereal bowl.”
His glare sharpens, and I can’t help but grin. Sparring with Fox has become one of my favorite pastimes.
“This is my space,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You don’t just waltz in and start moving things around.”
“It’s my space too,” I counter, crossing my arms. “I’m your roommate. For now, anyway. And unless you enjoy living in a disaster zone, you should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” He scoffs, his dark eyes narrowing. “For what? Making it impossible for me to find anything?”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “You’re acting like I burned the place down. I just tidied up.”
“I don’t need things tidy. I need them where I left them.”
“Well, now they’re where they should be.” I step forward, my chin lifting in defiance. “You’re welcome.”
The tension crackles between us, sharp and electric. His gaze drops to my lips for the briefest moment, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.
Fox takes a step back, his hands fisting at his sides. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning toward the door. “I need air.”
“Don’t forget to thank me on your way out,” I call after him, the teasing edge in my voice doing little to mask the fact that my heart is racing.
Later that evening, I sit at the small table in the loft, typing away on my laptop. The rhythmic clinking of tools and the low rumble of an engine drift up from the garage below, and I can’t help but feel a pull of curiosity.
Pushing my chair back, I pad over to the open door overlooking the workspace. Fox is bent over the hood of an old pickup, his hands moving with precision as he adjusts something in the engine. His flannel shirt is rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned and tattooed forearms. The overhead light casts a golden glow, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—focused, deliberate, completely in his element. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and it sends a ripple of heat through me that I don’t entirely understand.
“Enjoying the show?” His deep voice startles me, and I realize he’s looking right at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I straighten, descending the stairs into the garage and crossing my arms over my chest. “Just making sure you haven’t died under there.”
“Worried about me, sunshine?” He steps away from the truck, wiping his hands on a rag. The teasing lilt in his voice makes my stomach flip.
“Hardly,” I retort, forcing my tone to stay steady. “If you go missing, who’s going to deal with Jet’s antics? He chased Buttercup around the loft until she hid out on top of the fridge all afternoon by the way.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over me. “Maybe that you and that damn pussy need a hobby, other than annoying me, of course.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to let him see how much his scrutiny affects me. “And what’s your hobby? Being grumpy?”
He steps closer, the air between us growing thick. “Maybe.”
“Figures.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a moment, I think he’s going to laugh. Instead, he leans against the truck.
“Why are you really here, Amelia?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost curious.
I hesitate, his question catching me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“You said you’re here for your blog, but I don’t buy it.” His eyes narrow, searching mine. “You’ve got a history with this place. Don’t you?”
My breath catches, and I force a casual shrug. “Maybe. Why do you care?”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze intense. “Because you don’t look like someone who’s just passing through.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat. He’s too close, too sharp, and I feel like he’s peeling back layers I’m not ready to reveal.
“Goodnight, Fox,” I say finally, turning back toward the loft.
His voice stops me before I reach the doorway. “Amelia.”
I glance over my shoulder, my heart pounding.
“Don’t mess with my tools again…unless you’re looking for trouble,” he says, a devilish smirk playing on his lips.
The tension breaks, and I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I retreat to the loft. Fox Miller might be the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, but damn if he isn’t also the most intriguing.