Work Me Up

But I cannot for the life of me figure out what spooked her. One minute we were working on Betty same as usual. She seemed a little nervous when I asked her to steer the car out of the garage, but she says she has her license and she knows how to drive. I figured she was just nervous she might accidentally ding up the car again, if she steered too far to one side or the other and messed up our nice new paint job.

To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded all that much if she had. It would’ve been an excuse to keep her around another couple of days—because after we finish fine-tuning Betty today, she’ll be good to go. Which means my agreement with Selena will be over.

But she didn’t hit the wall. She steered the car out of the garage just fine. Only to slam on the brakes so hard and fast that I hit the rear bumper trying to push it farther into the lot. And then Selena just… ran. Literally.

I could have chased her. Maybe I should have. But something about the look she fired me just before she split—that wild, desperate, haunted look—told me that the last thing she wanted was for someone to witness whatever the hell she was going through. I should know. I’ve worn that look before myself. Back when my mom died, and I would just dissolve into these crying jags for no apparent reason.

Unease churns in my gut. Is something else wrong?

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe she regrets what we did together. Maybe that’s why she’d been giving me the cold shoulder earlier in the day, and I should’ve listened to her, should have heeded that warning and not tried to fuck her again yesterday.

In my defense, she’s fucking hard to keep your hands off of. Especially when she kissed me back, her lips so soft and supply, practically butter melting into mine…

To stop my hands from forming into fists, I run them through my hair, making it stand up on end. I barely even notice, I’m so distracted with my train of thought.

I should call her.

Right?

It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Just to make sure she’s all right. If she does regret anything that happened between us, maybe I can smooth it over, at least. Make it clear to her that if she wants things to end, fine, they’re done. Even if the thought of never getting to run my hands over those luscious curves or kiss those sugar sweet lips of hers again drives me wild. I can walk away, if that’s what she wants. If it’s what she needs in order to recover from… whatever the hell happened yesterday.

I force myself to wait until the end of the business day. I figure she might show up late, after all. And if not, maybe she’ll text or call first, offer some kind of an explanation.

Besides, I have work to catch up on. Selena was right about one thing yesterday. I really could use a hand around here. Between all the new work I’ve been getting with luxury clients, as well as my old and regular clients whose work I need to keep doing steadily… things have been getting a little too hectic for one man to handle. It’s a good problem to have, but it’s a problem I’ll need to address soon, nonetheless.

Part of me can’t help thinking about what it would be like to have Selena in the shop with me more often… Maybe not helping me with the cars all the time, not if she doesn’t like the work. But there’s plenty of paperwork and office things she could help with. Or if she does like the greasy jobs, I could teach her how to repair engines themselves, how to work on timing belt fixes or tires or oil changes or any of the myriad number of regular problems that I see cropping up a lot of the time with my usual customers.

It would free me up to work on the more complicated issues with some of the more finnicky cars. The older vintage models that I especially love to tinker with, because each one is so unique. Every car is like a puzzle, and I know the solution is there if I just keep working, keep looking hard enough and trying out new solutions until I find the one that fits.

It’s why I love my job so much. Why I’ve never even considered any other career path. The garage is the place I belong, and cars will always be my first love. My passion in life.

Maybe a little bit of my baby, I think with a wry smile, unable to help recalling the first time Selena insulted me. The fiery spark in her eyes when she teased me, out in her parents’ yard. Right after smashing up my car, no less. Any other girl would have been begging for forgiveness, but not her.