Chapter 15 #2
“So instead of laughing at me slipping in oil that shouldn’t have been there in the first place, maybe you should be asking yourselves why proper safety procedures weren’t followed.
Maybe you should be wondering how many other hazards you’ve overlooked while you were too busy being entertained by your boss landing on her arse. ”
They stare at me with varying degrees of guilt and chastened embarrassment. The silence stretches, broken only by oil dripping from my hair onto the concrete.
“Now,” I continue, glancing at my ruined shoes and the small environmental disaster around my feet, “I’m going home, showering with industrial degreaser, and burning these clothes in my backyard.
When I get back, I expect this workshop to be clean enough to eat off the floor.
And if I find one more safety violation—one loose bolt, one unmarked spill, one improperly stored tool—you’ll all be staying late to complete mandatory safety training.
All eight hours of it. Do I make myself clear? ”
A chorus of “Yes, boss” follows me as I squelch toward the exit, my heels making wet, sticky sounds with every step. Oil slides down my back, pools in my shoes, and probably stains everything I touch.
I’m almost to my car when I hear Jake’s voice behind me.
“Stella? What the fuck happened to you?”
I turn to see him standing by his ute, a box of parts balanced in his arms, staring at me with a mix of concern and barely contained amusement. His dark hair is slightly mussed from the wind, and he’s wearing overalls that somehow make him look both professional and incredibly sexy.
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing a finger that’s dripping motor oil. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” he says, though his lips definitely twitch and there’s a suspicious gleam in his eyes. “I’m just... processing.”
“Your co-workers left a drip tray in the middle of the floor. I slipped trying to clean up oil that was a safety hazard, and now I look like I’ve been dunked in a tar pit.”
“You look...” He pauses, clearly searching for the right words as his gaze travels over my oil-soaked form.
“Disgusting? Ridiculous? Like a walking environmental disaster?”
“Sexy as hell, actually.”
I blink; certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“There’s something incredibly hot about seeing my usually pristine girlfriend covered in motor oil. It’s very... industrial chic.”
“Jake, I smell like a petrol station, and I have oil in places oil should never be.”
“Even better.” He heads towards me, apparently unbothered by my toxic appearance. “Very authentic workshop aesthetic. You look like you’ve been getting your hands dirty—literally.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re beautiful. Even covered in motor oil.” He tucks a strand of oil-soaked hair behind my ear; fingers gentle against my cheek. “Although I have to admit, the guys weren’t wrong about it being entertaining. You look like you’ve been wrestling an engine and lost.”
“I hate you all.”
“No, you don’t. You love us. Especially me.”
He’s right, damn him. Even humiliated and slick with oil, I can’t stay mad when he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something else in his expression—genuine affection and desire—and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it. My heart skips.
“I need to go home and decontaminate myself.”
“Want some help? I’m very good with my hands, and I know all the best techniques for removing stubborn stains.”
The innuendo in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly despite my current state. Only Jake could make me feel desirable while I’m covered head to toe in motor oil.
“Jake Walsh, are you seriously hitting on me while I’m covered in motor oil?”
“Absolutely. In fact, this might be the hottest you’ve ever looked.”
“You have very strange tastes.”
“I have excellent tastes. I chose you, didn’t I?”
Despite everything—the humiliation, the oil seeping into places it shouldn’t be, the fact I probably look like I’ve been dipped in tar—I can’t help but smile. This man, this wonderful, ridiculous man who thinks I’m beautiful even when I’m a walking disaster, always knows exactly what to say.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“The luckiest man alive,” he agrees, kissing my forehead despite the risk of getting oil on his lips. “Now go get cleaned up, and I’ll deal with the idiots inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make them clean this place until it sparkles, then give them a lecture about workplace safety and respecting their boss. Maybe throw in a few threats about what happens to people who endanger my girlfriend.”
“My hero.”
“Always, darl. Oil-covered or otherwise.”
As I drive home in my beaten-up Corolla—now definitely getting oil stains on the seats—I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Three months ago, I was making coffee and living a quiet, predictable life where the biggest crisis was running out of oat milk.
Now I’m running an auto restoration shop, dating a man nicknamed Batman’s kinky cousin, and apparently pioneering the motor-oil chic fashion trend.
It’s messy and completely unpredictable. My carefully planned morning has gone off the rails. I’ll probably spend the next hour scrubbing oil out of places I didn’t know oil could reach, and I’ll have to throw away a perfectly good outfit.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because this beautiful mess of a life I’ve stumbled into is exactly where I belong. With people who care enough to laugh at my misfortunes and a man who thinks I’m gorgeous even when I look like I’ve been in a fight with an oil tanker and lost.
This is my life now, and I’m absolutely, completely, ridiculously happy.