Page 45 of That Moment
Because the truth is, I already know how this ends. I’ll catch her watching me, pretending she’s not, and that’s when I’ll move. Nice and slow. Make her feel every ounce of payback she earned today.
My pulse kicks just thinking about it. That taboo thrill curls low in my gut.
I shake my head, still grinning like an idiot as I reach for the wrench again.
“Yeah,” I mutter, laughing quietly to myself. “You’re so fucked, man.”
By quitting time, I’ve done about ten percent of a day’s work and spent the other ninety trying not to think about her. Every time I blink, she’s there. Laughing behind that glass. Crossing those legs. Walking out without so much as a glance as her hips swayed a little more than normal.
By the time the guys pack up, I’m done pretending I’m getting anything else accomplished. I flip the lights, tell Pete to lock up, and head out. Normally, I’d stay late, make sure everything’s ready for the morning, but I can’t stand being in that shop another second. Not when the smell of her perfume still clings to the office.
The drive home’s quick, but my brain won’t shut up. Every fucking thought is a memory of her mouth, her laugh, that damn dress. By the time I hit my driveway, I’m half-hard and fully frustrated.
I start stripping the second I get home, heading straight for a cold shower. It doesn’t help. So I grab a beer and head out to the back porch.
The sky is turning that soft, pinky orange over the pasture, the horses still grazing. It should be peaceful, but it isn’t. Because my phone’s sitting on the railing beside me, and I’ve checked it so many times it ought to file a restraining order against myself.
Play it cool, Bescher. Make her sweat.
That’s what I keep telling myself. Be the one who doesn’t cave first. Let her come to you. Except every time I take a sip of beer, I picture her leaning against Dolly’s desk again, lips glossed and smiling, and the idea of waiting feels impossible.
I pick up the phone. Stare at the last messages between us about the Mustang.
I type out a message.
Me:Want to come by?
No, too much of a booty call. Delete.
I try again.
Me:Dinner?
Too informal.Delete.
Me:Forget about the kiss yet?
Jesus.Delete.
I drop the phone facedown on the table, lean back, and close my eyes. The crickets chirp around me. I tell myself I’m better than this. That I’m a grown man who can control his urges.
I lasted three minutes.
I snatch the phone back up, thumb hovering.
Screw it. Life’s too damn short.
Me:You want to come by for dinner? I’m cooking, my treat.
Simple. No emojis. No games.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering oversend.My chest’s tight enough to crack. I almost delete it again, but something in me snaps, the same reckless part that’s been pushing at this line for years.
I hit send.
The message hangs there on the screen, a blue bubble glowing against the dark.
I lean back, exhale slow. Half of me hopes she’s still at the office, buried in work, too busy to see it. The other half hopes she’s home, sees my name pop up, and decides not to answer just to make me sweat.
