Dirty Distractions (Afternoon Delight 1)
Sara licked her lips as Telly started chanting about coming again. A small smile curved her lips. “Yeah. Like me.”
Sara turned up the radio and tapped her hand on the wheel to Joan Jett as she drove home from work. It had been a four-aspirin kind of day. A potential patron had pulled out of the benefit at the last minute, leaving her with a hole to fill. The fundraising dinner was a big part of what kept the sanctuary going, and donors were hard to replace this close to the event. She’d spent way too long trying to come up with a solution, though she’d finally zeroed in on a potential target. Then she’d had a grant proposal to review. After two hours of fine-print fun, she’d gone with the two-fisted remedy of a raspberry latte and a chocolate bar. Even her usual stress buster of visiting the simulated rainforest hadn’t helped. Irritable birds and a cranky Sara apparently weren’t a good mix.
Now she’d have to spend the night sequestered in her room, listening to her bird recount the previous night’s lovemaking. Talk about creepy. And embarrassing. She would not succumb to lustful urges, even those provoked by her sex maniac conure. She’d wanted time to think, to mull, as it were, and she was taking it, calmly. There would be no drama in her love life or her household.
Ohmmm.
She cruised down the big hill that led to home, trying to concentrate on the breeze in her hair and the pleasant fact that her cold had receded to a mild tickle at the back of her throat. Everything was going well. Super, actually. As soon as she got home, she’d kick off these heels from Hades, shed the pencil skirt and dig out her fuzzy bunny slippers. She’d make a big green salad and—
Her damn car had stalled at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.
Exhaling deeply, she turned off the car and turned it back on, fully expecting the engine of her sedan to roar to life. Veronica had never been anything but reliable, even on the long drive across the country. She didn’t believe for one moment that she would pick today of all days to break down.
She cranked the engine twice more and got nothing. Not even a stupid click.
“Goddammit.” She climbed out and gave Veronica a good kick in the tires. Now what? She was only a quarter mile from home, but what about her heels? She really did not relish walking any distance in them. And what about her car? Maybe Triple A could come check it out. If she had Triple A, which she no longer did since she’d been encouraged to drop it by her sexy, way-too-persuasive, entirely-too-good-with-his-hands roommate who insisted he’d be able to service her vehicle whenever she needed it.
Except right now, when she happened to be avoiding him like some adolescent girl with a crush.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” she muttered, her thumb hovering over the number Brad had programmed into her phone for his shop.
A screech of brakes made her look up to see Kim’s next door neighbor’s bright blue Mustang idling behind her poor car. Dustin wasn’t a bad guy, he just happened to be the type she’d learned to steer clear of at all costs. He flashed a blinding, fake smile at disturbingly frequent intervals, had a bad comb over, and possessed the requisite grabby hands. Not to mention the hot car he drove that was supposed to magically erase twenty years and add approximately three inches of penis length.
But maybe he could take her to a service station that wasn’t Brad’s. If so, she might rethink her less than flattering assessment.
“Hey there, little lady,” Dustin said in a booming voice as he slithered out of his car with a creak of arthritic knees. “Your spark plugs a little dusty or something?”
Or perhaps not.
“Not sure what’s going on. Could I have a ride, please? In your vehicle,” she added with a quick smile. “My car appears to be dead.”
“You have Triple A?”
“No. Drop me off at O’Halloran’s if you wouldn’t mind. One of the guys can come back here to give me a tow.” Seeing Brad might stir up all sorts of feelings, but she’d take her chances with her libido over extra minutes spent in a cramped space with Wide Toothy Smile.
Especially since her skirt was just tight enough to have earned more than the standard leer he usually aimed her way. No, this was a full-on visual assault.
Amazing her bottom didn’t have burn holes.
Dustin shook his head. “O’Halloran’s is a small operation. Not a lot of techs there, and I know you must need your car fixed right quick. Let me bring you to the Quickie Lube on Route 16. That’s where I bring my ‘Stang.”
Route 16? Miles and miles away? Oh hell no. Her smile flashed again. “Thank you, but O’Halloran’s is the best in the area. If you’re not headed by there, I’ll call Brad—”
“No, no need for that. I’m here, aren’t I?” He patted his noticeably puffed chest. Telly didn’t strut around half as much as Dustin Winters did. “Here, get on in, Sara dear.” He held open the passenger door with a flourish and motioned her inside.
After turning on her sedan’s hazard lights, Sara hurried around the car and murmured her thanks. It was only a three-minute ride. What could possibly happen?
Other than a few near knee grabs, a thick-fingered arm pat, and a heavy whiff of tuna fish breath as Dustin leaned across to open her door once they arrived at Brad’s shop.
He insisted on coming inside with her though she asked him—damn near begged him, actually—not to. The last thing she wanted was for Brad to go all caveman and start asking why they were together. Not that she’d ever witnessed Brad going caveman, but the guy had more than enough testosterone that it wasn’t a leap to imagine he might. Add in their awkward morning after, and things probably would be strained enough without any unnecessary fuel for the fire.
Dustin marched up to O’Halloran’s door and held it open, ushering her inside. She tried once more to get him to leave as she stepped onto the paint-spattered concrete floor. “Thank you, Dustin, I appreciate it, but—”
Her voice died away at the blast of music and the clear baritone filling the humid space. The Beatles’ “Ticket To Ride” had been turned into a rocking anthem and played at a decibel that probably would’ve frightened away the customers, had there been any but her. And she wasn’t frightened by the sounds and sights, she was mesmerized.
Brad stood with his foot on an overturned barrel and his hands wrapped around a shiny wrench that had become his de facto microphone. He sang with his eyes closed and his head thrown back as if he really were on
stage. His hips rocked to the beat, and an infectious smile spread across his gorgeous face while he wailed through the song in a way she doubted the Beatles had ever anticipated.