Page 137 of Mess With Me

I lead her over to my workbench, which runs along the whole far wall. Cubbies are filled with tools and parts of all sizes, with bigger tools hanging on the wall next to some of the bigger machinery I’ve acquired over the years.

Sasha peers at the wall to where all the external cords for things like my soldering iron and drill mount run together along the base of the counter, fixed with plastic ties every few feet.

“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

I grumble as I pull out the box of tiny instruments I use for smaller jobs, flicking on the under-counter lights.

“What happens if you need to get rid of one of these?” She pokes at the cords. “Do you have to tear them all apart?”

“What, is it extra to have them so neat?”

Sasha snorts. “Extra? Have you been watching my favorite shows, big man?”

“Once or twice.” I may or may not have checked out the reality makeover shows I know she watches on the old laptop I gave her. “I don’t know how you deal with all those…conflicting personalities.”

She laughs, throwing her head back.

I have to look away. She’s so beautiful.

“Actually,” I say, considering, “that’s putting it kindly. Those people are all insane. Over pants. Or pant, as you call them.” I flip open the lid of the box of small tools.

Sasha shakes her head at me, her lips pulled into the most beautiful grin I’ve ever seen. “I can’t even with you, Griffin Kelly.”

“Even what?”

Her mouth snaps open, then shut again. “Never mind.”

“To answer your question,” I say, pulling out a tiny screwdriver, “it’s easy to take a cord out of that bundle if I need to.” I stick the screwdriver into the seal of the plastic tie, depressing the tongue. The plastic strap slips off with a satisfying littlezipsound.

“Wow. You bring that trick out at parties?”

I scowl. “I don’t like messy shit in my workshop.”

“So I can see.” She looks over more of my neurotically organized shelves. It’s a good thing she likely doesn’t know her screw types. She’d have a field day if she knew they were alphabetized.

I force myself to quit staring at her and examine the bird. I’m going to need to see better. Already knowing she’s going to give me shit for it, I reach for a pair of glasses with a series of lenses on one side.

“Don’t even start,” I say, watching her face light up as I pull on the glasses.

The frames are old, with the kind of arms that curl around the ears instead of resting on top of them. I modified the device with a tiny light on one side, which I switch on before I pull the contraption onto my head.

When I look at Sasha, she presses her manicured hands to her lips.

I narrow my eyes. “Say it. I dare you. I know these things are nerdy as hell.”

She rolls her lips between her teeth, then pops them out again. I can tell she’s trying extremely hard not to laugh. “One of your eyes looks really big.”

I go to pull them off, but she stops me. “No. Don’t take them off.” She smiles, no mockery in it now. “I love it, Griff. I love how you know how you have the perfect tool for everything in here. And how you know how to do…everything.”

I think she might be talking about sex right now, or at least I allow my nerdy-glasses-wearing ass to think that.

I peer down at the bird, adjusting the lens over my eye. I don’t use these glasses for watchmaking or bird fixing, but I can do both.

I pick up the tiny screwdriver again and insert it under a thatch of feathers, removing the miniature screw. I carefully remove the covering plate, then angle the bird to get a better look inside.

“Actually I take it all back,” she says, watching me with rapt attention. “Those goggles are sexy as hell. So is knowing your way around a mechanical bird.”

I fight the urge to preen like one.

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