Chapter 8 Anna
EIGHT
ANNA
Iwalk into my kitchen the next morning with bleary, tired eyes and a stomach filled with anxiety.
Because instead of facing my demons—and by demons, I mean the infuriatingly flirty houseguest I have no freakin’ clue what to do with—I ignored him all night instead.
I made grilled cheese for dinner and poured a glass of wine, and since people suffering blunt force trauma really shouldn’t drink anyway, I took the bottle to bed and spent my evening watching trashy reality television.
Dean, on the other hand, watched ELF in my living room, if two hours of hearing Will Ferrell screech was anything to go by.
Dropping the empty wine bottle into my recycle bin, I snuggle into my oversized hoodie and rub my hands together for warmth.
Moving silently, my feet wrapped in fluffy white socks, I make my way to the coffee machine with the taste of caffeine already teasing my tongue, but as I grab a mug and place it under the spout, I blink, blink, blink my fuzzy eyes, then I peek left and find my dry erase board, about one foot tall, one foot wide, resting by my sink.
I hit the button on my coffee machine and study the crisp white board, the thick red letters taking up most available space, and beside it, a marker I don’t recall owning.
T-minus 6 days till your bestie BFF’s wedding, Counselor. And don’t forget date night tomorrow night. I hope you slept well. At the risk of sounding like a complete fkn creep, you should know you look pretty when you sleep. Don’t have me arrested for saying that. Turn me over.
Stunned by the sharp end to his note, I pick up the board and flip it over, then I tamp down on the anticipation bubbling in my belly, because I discover a whole new surface filled with messily scribbled words.
You don’t actually know me yet. Ya know, since you ran me down with your car and my brain has been a little scrambled ever since.
But I’m a decent dude. Not great, but decent.
I’m good company, and I’m not a crazy psycho killer or anything, so it’d be cool if you wanted to hang out sometime.
But also, since it’s the season for telling the truth, I think you’re beautiful as fuck, and I don’t know how not to say what’s on my mind, so IF we hang out, that’s something that’ll probably come up.
It is what it is. Don’t let that scare you off.
Enjoy your coffee. Come find me when you’re ready.
Setting the board back on the counter, my coffee machine gurgling behind me while steam wafts from the top, I press my hands beside the board and just… breathe.
I exist in this world where everything is upside down and my houseguest is charming and a criminal.
Both.
At the same time.
I imagine an evening spent on Detective James’ arm, wearing a pretty dress, while he wears a suit… and Dean makes three.
The guy is injured, and in hiding. Why the hell would he want to attend a public event overflowing with police?
“God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and release a long, tired groan. Which is the exact opposite of what I intended for my moment of breathing.
The rich scent of coffee fills the air, while out the window overhanging my sink, early morning sunlight filters through the trees outside.
Frustrated, I push off the counter and head to my fridge, snatching out the creamer and dropping a dollop into my coffee.
Putting the carton back and closing the door, I wrap my hands around the blissfully hot mug and make my way through my home, past the couch Dean has already tidied, with pillows stacked on one end, and a blanket folded into a neat square.
He brought nothing with him; no spare clothes, no duffel, not even a spare pair of underwear. Which means besides the blanket and pillow, and if I were to ignore the man’s cologne lingering in the air, I could almost pretend I have no guest.
No thief sleeping on my couch.
No oddly jovial athlete, not at all put out by the fact he can’t compete in his sport this year.
I cast a look toward the crackling fire, already alive and warm, then I continue toward the front door, pulling it open and stopping on the threshold with a scowl.
Dean works under the hood of my car, his heavy black coat wrapped around his muscular frame, his ski-cap—used like a beanie—covering his hair all the way to the nape of his neck.
He bops to Jingle Bell Rock, his hips bouncing and his thighs filling his jeans in an entirely inappropriate way, and though I could stop to wonder where the hell the music is coming from, it takes only another second after peeling my eyes off his ass to notice my driver’s side door open and the Road Runner’s speakers vibrating with Christmas cheer.
Ew.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Startled, Dean shoves up tall and smacks the top of his head against the underside of my hood. He hisses and turns, pouting and rubbing his head. But his stare… dammit, his stare prickles at my body from my toes to my hair. He lingers on my thighs, and loiters even longer on my lips.
Finally, he swaps his pout for a wide, magnetic smile. “Good morning, Counselor. You slept in.”
“I’m technically on leave until the new year. Sleeping in is allowed.” And it had absolutely nothing to do with the bottle of wine I snuggled with all night.
I bring my coffee up and raise a single, questioning brow. “What are you doing with my car? I certainly didn’t give you permission to touch it.”
“Felt bad.” He settles his backside on the car’s frame, crossing his ankles and folding his injured arm across his chest. “I can tell you love this car, and I had the terrible manners to stand in front of it a couple of nights ago.” His eyes sparkle with torment.
“Pulled the dent out and buffed it up nice and pretty.”
“You… what?” I shove away from the door and slip my socked feet into an oversized pair of boots I keep close by for emergency dashes to the mailbox, last-minute trash collection, and for the impression a man lives here.
Safety 101. Huddling into my hoodie and moving down the steps, I steamroll all the way to my baby and crouch to get a look at the paint he probably cracked.
The dent he probably made worse. The… “You can’t just pop these back out in the cold, you know?
” I run the pad of my thumb across what should be an imperfection. “What did you do?”
“Coaxed her out nice and gently.” He crouches beside me, his knee bumping mine, the smooth material of his jacket rubbing against my arm, and dammit, his smile crinkles in my peripherals.
“Woke up around four and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I deferred to good ol’ Mr. Fix-It on the internet and figured this out. ”
“Videos?” I meet his eyes with a burning scowl. “So, you’re saying you’ve never done this before? Zero experience with body work, and you still thought you could mess around with my car?”
“Loads of experience working bodies, Ms. Maxwell.” He lifts his right hand and makes a show of jabbing it forward. “Though, my goal is usually to create the dents, not pull them out.”
“Dean—”
“I’ve worked on my truck enough over the years to know I could do it.
I found videos on the internet to make sure I didn’t screw it up.
Now she looks as good as new.” With a parting wink and a flirty smile, he pushes up straight, then he hooks his hand under my arm and drags me up with him.
“Also, you were getting low on oil, so I topped it up for you.”
“But you… You…” I grip my coffee in one hand and grab the dipstick with the other. Tugging it out, I search for the line where oil ends and clean metal starts. “If you overfill the oil, it’ll foam and screw my crankshaft. If that happens, you—”
“Didn’t happen.” He pries the dipstick from between my fingers and puts it back in place.
“I already feel like an ass, seeing as how warmly you look at me every time we’re in the same space.
” He wipes his hand on the thigh of his jeans and scours my face with a sweeping glide of his eyes.
“I promise I did nothing to your car that put it at risk. Just wanted to help fix some of what I broke.”
“What you broke?” I’m the ass. I’m a giant jerk carrying a bad mood all the way through December, and because I have, I’ve made the victim of my crime feel like the perpetrator.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Exhaling a noisy breath—one, two, three—I drop my hand, open them again, and meet his inquisitive, much-too-kind stare.
Dammit.
“I’m sorry.” I take a single step back and cast my eyes to my car.
“You didn’t break anything. You have the right to walk on the road at night and not get run over, and you definitely don’t deserve my shitty attitude on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.
” I meet his gaze and force a small, trying smile.
“Thank you for pulling the dent out. And for checking my oil.” I choke out a nervous laugh.
“And for not suing me for literally running you down with my car.”
He folds his arms and beams. Too easily pleased, too readily happy. “You’re welcome. I hope your dad would approve.”
“Of you?”
“Of my treatment of the car.” He chucks my chin and heads around to the driver’s side door.
“Also, I have no clue how we’re this close to the twenty-fifth and you still don’t have a tree up.
I wait eleven long months every single year just so I can listen to Christmas music and not feel weird about it.
” He cuts the radio, pulls the keys from the ignition, and slams the door.
“Did you choose a gown for the charity thing?”
“No, I—”
“Wear red.” He comes to a stop entirely too close to me, the toes of his boots touching mine, his warm breath on my skin, and his palm pressed to mine as he transfers the keys across. “I bet you look amazing in red.”