Page 25 of Late to Love

THE BOWLING LANES are on the fritz. I call Jim, like always, and he tells me to get Darcy to look at them.

“Jim,you’remy bowling lane guy.”

“Sure as shit couldn’t tell you why,” he shoots back. “I just get back there and poke around until something starts working. I’m telling you, Darcy is the better mechanic.”

“Pretty sure Darcy is the better everything, Jim,” I say, resigned.

Jim chuckles. “You’re not wrong.”

I click off and go upstairs, opening the door and bracing myself for the interaction. The place smells of sawdust and watermelon-cherry, and a song I don’t recognize blasts into the air. Something kind of country, kind of rock and roll. Darcy’s singing along, her back to me, swinging her lush hips. Her overalls are unhooked, held up only by the tool belt she wears, and her pink tank top rides up, revealing a thick strip of skin that I want nothing more than to nip and bite. I bet it’s salty from the work she’s doing.

It’s been a week since she walked in and heard me. And while the promise of punishment has worked to keep her out of my space before 9 a.m., it’s also unlocked every fantasy I could possibly have about her and then some. I’m jerking myself off every fucking day to thoughts of her, and sometimes twice. I need it to stop. Need her to be done with this damn renovation, but of course there have been delays with materials, and she’s taken off more days this past week than ever before. But of course I can’t ask her about them. Not after I sexually harassed her. I mean, she liked it, sure, and she gave it back to me just as good, but still. She’s working for me.

She turns, and the glint of a navel piercing winks at me, and I think I might die. Jesus. A navel piercing in that soft stomach. Begging for me to trace it, to rub my head against her as though I’m marking her.

I am so very fucked.

She raises an eyebrow, then bends to turn the music off.

“Bowling lanes are on the fritz,” I say. “Your dad said you were the one to talk to.”

She preens. “Really? That was nice of him.”

I shrug. “Nice or not, it’s apparently the truth.”

She sets the saw down. “It is, but he’s never one to gush about me.”

“I wouldn’t say he gushed.”

Her expression falls, and instantly I feel like an asshole. “Let me have my fantasy, Anthony.” She stalks past me, her sweet scent trailing in her wake. “Well? You coming?”

I follow her down the stairs and into the hidden area behind the lanes. The fit is tight, of course it is, but Darcy ignores me completely, pulling a flashlight out of her tool belt and shining it around the mechanics. I lean against the far wall, staying out of her way as much as possible, and marvel at her.

She’s focused entirely on the problem, her eyes flitting everywhere she shines the flashlight, and all it does is make me want her that much more. But it’s more than that. Which is a problem.

Darcy makes a noise in the back of her throat, as though she’s identified something, and turns back to me. “You didn’t bring my tools?”

My lips part. “What?”

She gives a long-suffering sigh. “Anthony. If you’re going to follow me around like an apprentice, then you have to act like one. I need my toolbox.”

“I thought you had your tools right there.” I point stupidly at the belt around her waist.

Reaching up to adjust the bandana around her head, she asks, “Do you really think I have what I need right here?”

She’s definitely got whatIneed, so…maybe? I shake the thought away and mumble, “Be right back,” before going to get the woman’s tools.

A half hour later, I’m handing her whatever she needs as she demands it, watching as though I’m going to learn something and knowing good and well the only thing I’m learning is how luscious she looks with her ass bent into the air as she does something with a wrench. Which reminds me of yoga and the way she gave me such shit.

“I miss you,” I blurt, then immediately regret it.

I blame her butt. I’ve been utterly transfixed by it, and suddenly I’m telling her I miss her.

She turns and straightens, slowly, as if fully aware she’s the one in control right now. With her eyes pinned to mine, she says, “Good.”

A laugh escapes me. “Good?”

Her plush velvet lips quirk up. “Yeah. Good. Because I like talking to you.”

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