Miss Mechanic

All right, yes, I was a lush, but it was necessary. Hair of the dog and all that.

A few hours late, but whatever.

“You’re making it awkward.” His lips twisted to the side. “It’s just dinner, Jamie. Friends have dinner all the time.”

“We’re not friends. You said so.”

“True. What about non-friends who fuck? Can they have dinner?”

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Non-friends who fucked, you mean.”

He looked at me for a moment. “No, I’m pretty sure I mean non-friends who fuck.”

“Fucked,” I repeated.

“You don’t wanna do that again?”

I choked on my own spit. “Again?”

“No need to sound so horrified. Fucking hell.”

Now, I choked on my own laughter. “I didn’t mean—oh my god.”

“What can I get you, folks?”

We both jolted as the server, Georgia Hopkins, appeared at our table. A grade younger than me in school, she eyed us both as we shared a look and I picked back up my menu.

“I’ll have the ten-ounce rump steak.” Dex shut his menu and handed it back to her.

“And for you?” she asked, flicking her red hair over her shoulder.

“The cheeseburger. Thanks.” I gave her the menu without looking at her.

What? She’d stolen my boyfriend once upon a time.

I’d been sixteen, but a boyfriend stealer was a boyfriend stealer, my friend.

Dex raised an eyebrow at me.

“She stole my boyfriend in sophomore year.”

“Ouch.”

“Kinda. He got busted for drugs three years later and she was in his car.” I sipped my wine. “That was fun.”

“Small towns,” he muttered. “Bunch of weirdos.”

“Hey!” I threw my napkin across the table at him. “I’m not weird. I’m simply…unforgiving. I remember shit.”

“That doesn’t bode well for me, does it?”

“What? After you fire me next week?” I leaned back. “I don’t care. You were always going to fire me.”

His hand hovered around the base of his beer glass. “Was I?”

“Based on everything I know about you? Yes.”

“What if you don’t know me at all?”

I watched him for a moment.

How his fingers twitched against the table.

How his eyelashes fanned over his cheeks when he blinked.

How his teeth grazed over his lower lip.

“Then I don’t know,” I admitted, twirling the stem of my glass. “You’re just fucking with me now.”

“How am I fucking with you? We don’t really know anything about each other. We bickered too much.”

“Are you saying we should get to know each other?”

“You sound horrified about all my suggestions.”

“Well, they are a little out of character.”

His lips twitched. “I told you. You don’t really know me that well. You know know—”

I pointed toward the door. “If you bring up what I said while intoxicated, I swear to God, I will walk right out of that door.”

His laughter filled the air and he shook his head. “All right, all right. I won’t bring it up. Right now.”

“You’ve brought it up enough times today. Any more than two and it’s ridiculous.”

“I am ridiculous. You know that.”

I tilted my glass toward him. “Now, that I can agree on.” I sipped, meeting his eyes. “You really want to get to know each other?”

“You already asked me that.” A smile stretched his lips.

“I know. Just double checking.”

He flattened his hands on the table, palms up and fingers splayed. “We work together. You…might be proving me wrong… So, why not?”

Folding my arms, I sat back in my chair and eyed him. I didn’t believe him—I felt like there as an ulterior motive that I couldn’t figure out, but I’d play along.

Our entire relationship was based on us playing along with each other, after all. If it wasn’t broken, why fix it?

“Fine,” I said slowly. “Let’s do that…for whatever reason you aren’t telling me.”

Laughter danced in his eyes. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Really? We’re going to do twenty questions?”

Dex paused. “I could probably think up twenty questions if you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to.”

“I think I have twenty now.”

Dear God, no.

“What’s your favorite movie?” he repeated.

I sighed. Was I really going to do this? Yes. Yes, I was. “That’s tough. I don’t really watch movies.”

“You don’t watch movies?”

I shook my head. “I prefer TV shows. But if I really had to pick…I don’t know. Home Alone?”

“Are you asking me if that’s your favorite?” A tiny smirk formed on his face.

“I’m just throwing it out. I do watch it about fifty times every Christmas, so I guess it’s my favorite.” I paused. “What’s yours?”

“Power Rangers. The original. No contest.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I always wanted to be the black one. Everyone I knew wanted to be red.” He smiled as he took a sip from his beer. “Favorite food?”

“Tacos. I thought that was obvious.”

“Mine, too. See—we have something in common.”

“We’re both mechanics who like tacos. Hold the press—that’s front-page news.” I rolled my eyes.

“It’s a start.” He grinned. “Favorite color?”

Oh Jesus, he was serious about the twenty questions thing.

“Don’t have one. Yours?”

“Whatever color lipstick you’re wearing.”

I stared at him. “That was either really cheesy, or a lame attempt at a pick-up line. Or both.”