She made a face at him. “People like me don’t get the luxury of practical shoes. Or making my own fashion decisions.”
“Boo hoo for you,” he snarked. “Come on, princess, let’s get you fixed up.”
Too bad that when she walked by all he could see was the way the cargo pants were moulded to her ass. Mentally chanting a prayer to whatever god watched over the perpetual dumb shits, Peirce headed after her.
Three hours later, he was either going to kill her or himself. She was driving him completely nuts. Worst of all, she had no idea she was doing it.
His garage was his sanctuary and having her in there, invading his space, moving things around, asking him questions he’d never tried to answer before, was infuriating and enthralling. She was an eager student, more than willing to get her pretty hands dirty. Her questions, while basic, were pointed and related directly to the task at hand. He ended up going into great detail about the cruiser: its systems, its history, even the ways to improve it from the stock model.
She’d been desperate to help, so he’d finally decided to teach her how to check the oil. It may have been a menial task, but she took it as seriously as a battlefield mechanic working on a disabled vehicle in the middle of a fire fight would.
The only downside of her working on the cruiser was the various ways she had to bend to even manage the work. It was a beast of a car, steel frame, strong and hard to destroy and she was tiny in comparison. To reach the dipstick, she had to place a knee on the bumper and hoist herself up to bend over the engine block. It gave him an all too-perfect view of her from behind.
He gave an inward sigh as he peeled his eyes away, stepping toward the side of the car. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she was staring intently at the options before her.
Peirce leaned in, biting back a curse as he brushed against the frame. Crap, he was so hard he’d probably punch a hole through the rusted shell.
Emmaline tentatively pointed and glanced askance of him. He kept a poker face. Her mouth contorted in a moue of insecurity and she pointed at another. Again, he gave her no sign.
She sighed and looked at them both again. Her expression was so torn he couldn’t help but encourage, “You know this. Just breathe and choose.”
She scrunched her eyes, breathed in and out and correctly picked the dipstick. As soon as she realised she’d made the right choice, she let out a small whoop of triumph. A huge smile graced her face.
His heart stopped.
She didn’t seem to notice; she was too focused on checking the oil level exactly as he’d told her. When she was done, she crawled down the bumper and grinned up at him. “Can I do anything else?”
She was practically vibrating with excitement.
There weren’t any other jobs for her at this point.
“Want to learn to change a tire?” he asked hoarsely.
Emmaline’s arms ached, her fingers would be blistered tomorrow and she was covered in rust and sweat and oil and gods knew what else.
She’d never been happier in her entire life.
Taggart had given her job after job. Each time he explained the tasks, often going back and forth between holoscreen and the real vehicle. He’d let her ask questions, watched her become familiar with the tools and overseen her work. But what she appreciated most was his refusal to do the job for her, or tell her if she was doing it right.
She’d never, in twenty-four years of life, been trusted to use her own knowledge to accomplish a task. Even the charity work her father had assigned her to oversee had been double-checked by his financial advisor. A team of stylists oversaw her clothing choices, especially for community events.
She pushed hard on the wrench, planting her feet so the wheeled board she lay on wouldn’t move. The bolt screeched, but finally gave. It only took a few more turns to remove it and watch the damaged skid plate fall to her right.
“Nice job,” Taggart complimented. He was crouched beside the car, watching her as she worked under it. Without warning, he reached out, grabbed the board and pulled her to him.
She stared up at him, frozen, wrench still clutched to her chest, his arm between her legs, his hand on the board. This was a reminder of how much bigger he was, leaning over her, ice-chip blue eyes cataloguing every detail. The thought of him stretched out on top of her made her chest flush and her cheeks burn.
It wasn’t until his eyes darkened and stared at her mouth that she realised she was biting her lower lip again. She stopped.
“Well,” he began softly.
When he didn’t continue, Emmaline shifted uncomfortably. “Well what, Mr. Taggart?”
“Peirce,” he corrected, eyes flicking up to hers.
Oh, my. Would she be able to say his name without spontaneously combusting? She swallowed. Such familiarity was forbidden in the higher classes, unless a betrothal was imminent. Even then, it was frowned on when not behind closed doors. But for some reason, with this man, she couldn’t resist. She wet her lips.
“What were you going to say, Peirce?”