Page 8 of Fire Me Up
Dylan’s mouth twitched. “Go rescue your cat, man. We’ll wait.”
I hurried toward the noise, finding Bacon batting happily at a fallen spring like it was the world’s best cat toy. He looked up at me with zero remorse in his amber eyes.
“You’re a menace,” I hissed, reaching for him.
He darted away, slipping between my fingers with feline precision. I lunged after him, knocking my shoulder against a shelf and wincing as pain shot through my healing gunshot wound. Bacon took advantage of my momentary distraction to leap onto a workbench, sending a container of washers scattering across the floor like metallic confetti.
“Fuck.” I dropped to my knees to gather them up. My face burned, knowing everyone was watching my catastrophe unfold in real time.
This was exactly why I couldn’t focus in class. My brain kept wandering, and my ridiculous crush on Dylan, and I was a disaster. I’d spent most of yesterday’s class trying to make sense of the Honda’s engine layout while sneaking glances at Dylan’s ass when he bent over to demonstrate something. Today was even worse—I’d been so distracted by the way he bit his lower lip when concentrating that I’d put an oil filter on backward. Twice.
And it wasn’t just his looks that got to me, though those were plenty distracting. It was the way he patiently explained concepts without being condescending, how he remembered everyone’s names and learning styles, the casual confidence in how he handled tools. The man was so comfortable in his own skin it made me ache.
“Need some help?”
I looked up to find Dylan standing over me, amusement dancing in his eyes. Before I could answer, he made a quick movement, and suddenly Bacon was in his arms, purring loudly like the traitor he was.
“How did you do that?” I asked, still on my knees surrounded by washers. “He never lets strangers pick him up.”
Dylan shrugged, scratching behind Bacon’s ears. “I’ve got magic hands.”
The moment the words left his mouth, my brain short-circuited with images of those magic hands on me instead of my cat. “I bet you do,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Fuck. Did I really just say that out loud?
Dylan’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow smile spread across his face. I wanted to melt into the floor or spontaneously combust—either option seemed preferable to facing him after that comment.
“I mean, with tools and stuff,” I backpedaled, scrambling to my feet and nearly slipping on a washer. “You’re great with your hands. At fixing things! Motorcycles! You fix motorcycles with your hands.”
Each word made it worse. I clamped my mouth shut before I could dig the hole any deeper.
Dylan’s smile widened as he handed Bacon back to me. “Thanks. I try to be good with my hands in all contexts.”
Was he flirting back? I couldn’t tell if that was innuendo or if my horny brain was interpreting everything through a crush filter.
“Well, you definitely showed me how to lube the—the chain,” I stuttered, then immediately wanted to die. What was wrong with me? I was twenty-eight years old, not some awkward teenager.
“Happy to demonstrate proper lubrication techniques anytime,” Dylan said, eyes twinkling.
Okay, that was definitely flirting. Right? Unless he was just making fun of me. Fuck, I was so bad at this.
I tucked Bacon under my good arm, using him as a furry shield. “I should, uh, put him back in his carrier before he causes more damage.”
Dylan nodded, then bent down to help me gather the remaining washers. I tried not to stare as his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of smooth skin and the edge of what looked likea tattoo disappearing into his waistband. Jesus, even the glimpse of a tattoo had me sweating.
This competence kink was going to be the death of me. Watching him take apart the engine today, explaining each component with such casual expertise, had been like foreplay. The way he handled tools with the same easy confidence someone might handle a lover... I’d spent half the class imagining those skilled fingers on my body instead of on motorcycle parts.
“You coming tomorrow?” Dylan asked as he dropped the last of the washers into the container.
“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” I said, meaning it more than he knew. I might not be learning much about motorcycles, but I wasn’t about to give up the chance to see him every day.
I gathered my things as the rest of the class filtered out, deliberately taking my time. Lucas was deep in conversation with Lena about something to do with engine thermodynamics. Lennox was helping Jerry put away the tools. Dylan moved around the shop, straightening things and making notes on a clipboard.
“Sorry about the chaos,” I said as I passed him on my way out, Bacon safely ensconced in his carrier.
Dylan looked up from his clipboard, a crooked smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it. Makes things interesting.”
“I’m usually better at following instructions,” I said, then immediately regretted the opening I’d given him.
