Page 11 of That Moment
“No.” My voice drops before I can reel it back. “That’s a warning.”
She cocks her hip, dropping her hand on it as she eyes me with thatI fucking dare you grin.It’s the look that almost got me in trouble a time or two over the years.
“Oh yeah? And what kind of warning is that?”
Here’s the thing about Adrienne Slade. She’s everything and I meaneverythingyou could want in a woman, and she fucking knows it. But one thing about me, I love getting a rise out of her, and I’m one of the very few who can. So I always push it.
“Keep testing me like that, Barbie, and I’ll forget we’re standing in front of thirty men.”
Her breath catches, just enough for me to hear it, and I wrench my gaze back to the Dodge in the corner like it’s a lifeline. My pulse is wrecked, my jeans uncomfortably tight, and I know I’ve already fucked up. But she doesn’t call me on it. She just lets that smile linger, wicked and satisfied, like she won this round.
“So, you show up to my shop with coffee, sweets, and a generous glimpse of your cleavage. What’s the catch?”
Her chin tips up. “I want to talk about my Mustang.”
I snort. “The one buried under dust in your dad’s barn?”
“That’s the one.” Her eyes sparkle.
“You want me to fix it.”
“No, I want you to teach me. I want to do it myself.”
I blink. “You?”
“Yes, me.” She sets her bag on the nearest workbench, careful not to let it touch anything greasy, then folds her arms, blouse straining just enough to test my self-control. “Don’t look so surprised. I grew up on a ranch, too. I can handle more than boardrooms, Scotty.”
I glance down at those stilettos, the delicate straps against her ankles. “Pretty sure those shoes can’t.”
She rolls her eyes. “I won’t be wearing these.”
“Why?” I ask finally.
Her arms tighten. “Because it’s mine. Because I’m sick of letting things sit broken. And maybe,” she adds softly, “I just want to work on something different besides contracts. I’m getting restless being too focused on work. I need…” she tilts her head slightly, “something to distract me.”
The last part has me interested, that’s for sure. “You’ll hate it. It’s dirty, frustrating, and takes patience.”
She lifts a brow. “So does law school. You think I can’t handle grease because I wear heels?”
Christ. She has an answer for everything.
“You certainly excel at being a lawyer.” I laugh.
I should tell her no. Send her back to her office with her coffee and her damn fuck me heels. Tell her to write me a check, and I’ll have the Mustang purring in a month. That’s smart. Safe. But I also know Adrienne well enough to know that once she has her mind set on something, there will be no talking her out of it.
I lean back against the workbench, crossing my arms. The only reason I don’t shut her down right here is because in my head, she’s still got that Rockies player entertaining her. It creates a safe enough barrier for a man trying not to get stupid.
She’s off-limits; hell, she’s spoken for. So yeah, maybe I can stand next to her for a few weekends without losing my damn mind.
“Fine,” I hear myself mutter, “Sundays. After hours. No distractions.”
Her smile is quick and triumphant. “Perfect.” She slides her bag back over her arm. “We’ll start this Sunday at 8am, don’t be late, Mr. Bescher.” Then she spins on her heel, offering a flick of her wrist as a wave and saunters out.
When the door shuts behind her, the shop exhales in unison. One of the younger guys whistles low. “Damn, boss. That woman’s… wow.”
I glare. “You want to keep your job, you keep your mouth shut.”
He laughs nervously and ducks back to work.
