Work Me Up
I still managed to talk up a few clients, I think. But I didn’t have any luxury car on hand to show them aside from Mark’s own Jag, which, no offense meant to the Browns, isn’t exactly unique in terms of luxury standards. I mean, it’s a great car, don’t get me wrong. But a lot of people have them. Big-shots like the ones at that party weren’t interested in cars that a lot of other people had.
They want the unique ones. The rare black leopard of the car families—the kind of car that, if it were a big game animal, you’d need to go on a seriously illegal nighttime raid to hunt it down, because it’d be on the endangered species list and you’d be arrested for even talking about going after it.
Not that I condone big game hunting, of course. Just, hunting down the kind of unique, rare, expensive as hell cars that I do is about as close as I’ll ever come to that experience.
And now, to top it all off, I’ve agreed to let the woman who trashed any hope I had of securing some really important customers last night, be the one to fix up my baby.
It’s not too late to change your mind, I remind myself. One more glance toward the Rolls has me wondering whether I ought to do just that. Call up Mark and tell him that on second thought, I’d rather just take an insurance check, please. I’m sure he’s got insurance that would cover an accident like this. No need to get his daughter involved.
His frustrating, oblivious, self-involved, incredibly fucking hot daughter.
No. Not hot. I’m just confusing anger with passion. Two different kinds of heat, Antonio, I remind myself.
Besides, Selena Brown is the last person I can afford to be attracted to. She’s everything I don’t want in a girl. High-maintenance, stuck-up, full of herself…
I’m still listing traits when someone knocks at the door to the garage. I turn around, and fuck. All those adjectives drop away, and there’s only one pounding through my head all over again.
Hot. Hot, hot, hot.
She wears a tight white T-shirt, stretched thin enough I catch a glimpse of the pink bra underneath. And she paired it with what look like very tight jeans. At least, they hug every inch of her curves. And oh, she’s got plenty of those. A waist I could probably fit both hands around easy, but then hips to spare, and a chest that I have to forcibly drag my gaze away from, because I can already feel a dangerous tightening in my own jeans, and the last thing I can afford right now is to have Mark Brown’s daughter catch me ogling her tits.
But fuck, I bet she has fantastic tits. The stretch in her shirt is enough to attest to that.
I swallow thickly and clear my throat, before I stick out a hand. “Welcome.”
She snorts. On her, it’s sort of cute. But also sort of very annoying. “Welcome? What is this, a formal interview?” She moves closer and takes my offered hand though, and along with her drifts some kind of scent on the air—perfume, maybe? It’s light, floral. Like nothing I’ve smelled before, and it fits her so exactly it almost surprises me. That, along with the feel of her soft, smooth palm in my hand, squeezing my fingers like she has any chance of making an impact with those dainty hands against my huge ones, has me jerking back from her quicker than I’d like.
This girl is dangerous.
“Hi, I’m here to apply for the position of person who smashed your car and is being strong-armed into fixing it. Did I get the job?”
I force an easy smile, as easy as I can manage when every ounce of blood in my body is aching to travel directly south to my cock. “Job’s all yours, if you think you can handle it.”
She arches an eyebrow coolly. Fuck, I’d like to see her do that more often. “How hard could it be?” she asks, and thank god she’s so annoying or I’d already be in danger of trying to rip that stupid see-through shirt off her right now.
“Well…” I draw out the word, tilting my head to one side as if pretending to study her. “It took me about five years of apprenticeship before I was trusted to take care of every aspect of work that goes on in this garage, to start with. And about another five years before I started handling the kind of cars like Betty.”
“Sorry, Betty?” Selena’s eyebrows both shoot skyward now, as if they’re trying to join with her pretty blonde row of bangs. “You named your car.”
“Doesn’t she look like a Betty?” I gesture at her, though truth be told, at the moment she doesn’t have quite her same sparkle and personality as usual.