Never Say Forever

“That isn’t an old car.” His teeth gleam before he turns back to his task. “It’s a classic.”

“Is that what we’re calling rust buckets these days?”

At his chuckle, my mind suddenly quiets, but it’s not his low tone that stops me in my tracks or the way he fits the wrench to the first of the nuts, giving it a powerful twist. Nope, it’s the accompanying masculine grunt that short-circuits the wiring of my brain, sending it straight to the gutter.

The gutter would do, but the back seat would be better.

“Y-you’re much better at this than me,” I find myself stammering like a girly idiot as blood begins to fizz in my veins. And my lashes aren’t fluttering because I have grit in my eyes. I’m not sure what’s come over me because I’m not ordinarily so Penelope Pitstop. You know, hay-ulp! Hay-ulp! It could be the way he handles those nuts—I mean, the wrench—that makes me feel hot, or maybe it’s the way his shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders. While these both are sights to behold, they pale in the titillation stakes when judged against this Grade A forearm porn show. Sculpted muscles and veins flex and stretch under skin that looks a little like warm caramel.

Work it, baby . . .

Oh, yeah.

Just like that!

My job and my studies have taught me that the body is an amazing machine, but I’m clearly not examining him as a mechanical specimen, or else how could I find the contours of his wrists appealing?

“Can you change a tyre?”

I find myself blinking down at the sound of his deep baritone, my cheeks beginning to sting as I find his gaze angled my way.

“I can’t change that one.” For some reason, I find I’m not quite ready to tell him he won’t be able to either. I mean, if I can’t have pomegranate martinis this afternoon, there should still be enjoyment, right?

“It’s a pretty tight fit.” He twists the wrench, exhaling the kind of tight grunt that makes my insides flutter.

“That’s what she said.” I turn my attention to the green valley, my words a quiet longing not meant to reach his ears. “And whoever she is, she’s a lucky girl.” Despite my intentions, as my gaze drops, I note the ghost of a smile hovering on his lips.

“So it’s like that, is it?” he almost drawls. Something wicked shines in his eyes as they rise.

“Oh, haven’t you heard that before?” I find myself blundering on. “It’s how we say it in England.” My accent suddenly very jolly hockey sticks, rather than my slightly modulated North London. In reality, the British version of “that’s what she said” is the much more confusing “said the vicar to the actress”, which I’ve never thought made much sense. Anyway, the stranger turns back to the matter at hand, though not fast enough to hide his continued amusement.

“Well, you jacked it pretty good,” he murmurs.

I find myself snickering—how could I not?

Yeah, baby. I jacked it real good.

So. Much. Innuendo. And I don’t even think he’s doing it on purpose.

“Are you gonna share that joke?” He glances up from lashes that would make a camel jealous. “Or is that some other kind of inside English joke?”

“It’s nothing.” I hide my smile behind my fingertips, but the man isn’t an idiot. That role in this interaction has already been filled.

“Sure.” His amusement rings clear. “Then I guess the joke must be me.”

To heck with it. What’s the point of having such a gorgeous audience and keeping my titillation all to myself? I press my hand to the hood to steady myself and my wobbling heel before I sigh a little theatrically.

“You see, it’s just, well, I’ve been trying to give up on innuendo, but you’re making it so, so hard.”

“That’s what he said,” he retorts with an enigmatic smile and a slow shake of his head. The kind that says he can’t believe he’s taking part in this ridiculousness. “Something tells me you’re all kinds of trouble. The kind of trouble that doesn’t stop at punctured tyres.”

My insides instantly light up like a Christmas tree.

“Me?” I press my fingertips to my chest, camping up the theatrics. “I’ve never been an ounce of trouble my whole life!”

This is all so delicious. Moments ago, I was facing a trek uphill with nothing but my frustration for company, and now, I’m bantering with a stranger who is twice as delicious as any pomegranate martini. And just as intoxicating, even just to look at!

What’s more, he seems to be enjoying this exchange just as much.

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he drawls. “Even if I’m not buyin’ it.”

“I’ll have you know that I am a paragon of virtue.”

“Sure. I bet you don’t ever curse, either.”

“I absolutely do not,” I reply in my most saintly tone.