Page 4 of Rough Daddy
“Well, shit on a cracker.” I blow out a long raspberry breath, perch my fists on my hips and spin to open the door and grab my phone from the passenger seat.
The world tips sideways, my ankle folds, stiletto heel slipping on the soapy wet concrete.
“Ohshit!”
Gravity hates me. I flap my arms like a fledgling looking for lift, but I’m heading down. I scream, and then…
Thud.
I don’t hit the hard slick concrete floor. I don’t cut myself, break any bones or even get a bruise. Instead, I’m looking up into the darkened face of a figure that blocks out all the sunlight.
They don’t grow men this large in New York.
He’s got to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall. Dark hair. A jawline that makes right angles look soft.
One shockingly short heartbeat later, I’m back on my feet. His hands detach from under my arms as he steps back and I get a much better...look.
His jeans hang low, frayed at the knees, stained with black smudges. A t-shirt with a simple black ‘X’ on the front is stretched across a torso that deserves its own zip code.
He’s staring at his open hands as though they don’t belong to him.
He drops them to his sides, curling fingers into fists the size of cantaloupes like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something terrible.
He just stands there, like he's deciding whether to defile me or take a baseball bat to my car.
I lick my lips, trying to figure out why my mouth is suddenly like the Sahara. "I, um, I think I’m gonna need a tow truck.”
My eyes keep darting to the front of his jeans where there’s a bulge the size of that aforementioned baseball bat snaking down the leg.
"That so?" he says, rolling his head around on his neck like maybe I’ve just interrupted the world’s most needed nap.
His gaze travels over me, then flicks toward the Tesla.
“Yes.” I roll my lips together, a sudden annoyance putting pressure behind my eyes. “I mistakenly mis-aimed the water gun-hose thing at the charging port and more than likely shorted out the safety override. Do you live around here or are you just stalking do-it-yourself-car-washes as a hobby?”
Heat pinpricks its way up my neck as he releases a sigh, then crosses his arms over his chest, and, Jesus, I nearly go face down at the sight of his forearms.
“You a mechanic?” he asks, his lids lowering as my eyes lock onto the movement of his throat under the dark day-old scruff, momentarily assessing his age.
He’s got to be forty.
That’s…like, nearly geriatric, right?
Then why are my panties taking hits like my vagina has turned on the emergency sprinkler system?
“No. I just…” How do I explain to a man I just met that I’m a freaking nerd? That the whole Tessa Quinn, influencer extraordinaire thing isn’t me? That my embarrassing search history is full of dual-clutch transmissions, big and small block engines, torque and F1 gearbox design? “I know about engines, although, technically EVs don’t have engines,” I end lamely.
The corner of his mouth twitches. It might be a smile. It might be him fighting one. "I own the car wash and the attached garage." He tips his head at the frontage. “I can take a look at it for you. But, parts might be a while.”
"How long?"
"Week. Maybe two."
"What? How much is that going to cost?" I’m flying by the seat of my six-hundred-dollar pants here, and I have no ideawhat the limit on my credit card is. Or whether my parents might cancel it as soon as they piece together that I’m really gone.
As smart as I am, my parents kept such a tight lid on finances, I’m common sense dumb when it comes to money.
Including making sure when you run away to start an anonymous new life, to bring more than the two hundred and seventeen dollars you had stuffed inside an empty Altoids tin in your console.
