Miss Mechanic

I peered over my shoulder at the cloth once I’d gotten my breathing under control.

Five-fifteen a.m. Over an hour before my alarm, and I was awake for one simple reason.

The kiss in that dream had been all too real.

The faceless, nameless person that Sleep Jamie had been playing tonsil tennis with was identifiable by one fact only.

He smelt like coffee and motor oil.

Not a particularly desirable scent, but one that, to me, weirdly, was attractive.

I only knew one person who smelt like that, and his name was Dexter Ryne.

I wasn’t surprised. After our…moment…yesterday, neither of us had said a word to the other. God knows why he didn’t speak, but I was silent because I had a startling realization over lunch.

I was attracted to him.

Pin me down, flip me over, fuck me ‘til next week attracted to him.

I’d almost dropped my damn sandwich.

I wasn’t okay with this. He was handsome, sure, but he was also an asshole. I could say that with absolute confidence, because I, too, was an asshole.

Takes one to know one, after all.

But it was the way he’d come up to me. I’d relived it a hundred times, and I felt like a goddamn schoolgirl by the time I’d gone to bed last night.

Something which had apparently let my subconscious slut out to play.

Obviously, I’d deprived her of sexy dreams for a while.

No.

Dex.

Goddamn it.

The way he’d held his ground, kept eye contact, smoothed my hair with his rough hand. The gentle way he’d drawn me in until he’d whispered in my ear.

Whispered something that sounded a lot like both a threat and a promise.

A threat that I couldn’t hack it, and the promise that he’d prove it.

But what was his world?

Was he going to throw jobs at me he didn’t think I could do, or was he going to use another weapon—himself?

Because I could do all the first. There wasn’t a thing I couldn’t fix.

He was another matter.

I wasn’t weak. I had no doubt I’d be able to resist him, but I was also human. If I was attracted to him, I’d give in eventually. He wouldn’t win the battle of the mechanics, but he might just win the battle of seduction.

If he wanted to go that way.

Hell, maybe he wasn’t even attracted to me. Maybe he was just a touchy, flirty asshole who got off on making women feel like he wanted him. If that was true, then fine. That would make it easier if he wanted to pretend to want me.

I talked a good game.

That was my only thought as I scrambled out of the sweaty sheets. I tugged them all off and threw them into a ball beneath my window, then trudged into the shower.

If I was going to think deep thoughts, I might as well get clean at the same time.

I stripped off and threw my clothes in the laundry hamper, then started the shower. It was way too cold when I got in, but I was too tired to care. It heated up quickly enough, and once the chill had left my skin, my mind wandered back to my previous train of thought.

Dex.

What was I thinking? I didn’t like him, and just two days ago, I’d been disgusted that Haley obviously wanted to jump his bones.

Now, I kinda wanted to.

More to the point, I kinda wanted to know if Real Dex kissed better than Dream Dex. And that was a high bar to beat…

I smacked myself in the forehead. What was wrong with me? What the hell was I doing, standing in the shower lamenting a dream? There were thousands of mechanics in this country who probably smelt like coffee and motor oil.

Maybe I’d kissed one of them. They didn’t have faces as far as I was concerned, after all.

Yeah, I’d kissed one of those. Not Dex. Not the asshole boss who flicked my sarcasm switch before I’d even parked my car outside the garage. Not the dickhead guy who thought I couldn’t handle the job and underestimated me at every turn.

No, no, no. I’d most definitely not dreamed about kissing him and lifting up his shirt to run my fingers over his…

I needed therapy. Clearly, that was the only option presented to me at this time.

Or…alcohol and carbs would work. They were cheaper than therapy…

***

“Or quitting!” Haley snapped at me from the treadmill next to me once I was done weighing up therapy or carbs. “He doesn’t respect you, Jamie. He doesn’t believe you’re good enough. He thinks he can handle your temper, for the love of God. You can’t even handle your temper!”

“Your date went well last night, then,” I replied dryly, grabbing my water bottle.

“No. It was a hot freakin’ mess, because daddy’s boy was thirty minutes late and accused me of being rude when I wanted to leave.”

“You ordered the lobster, didn’t you?”