Page 14 of The Mechanic's Match
“What the hell is this?” His voice is sharp, his brows furrowed as he surveys the room like I’ve rearranged the planets.
“You’re welcome,” I chirp, setting the blanket down and turning to face him. “Your kitchen counters are no longer a health hazard, and I found a perfectly good tool chest under the sink. You’re a whole new man now.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle there ticking. “Amelia, where are my tools?”
“In the tool chest.”
“Which is where?”
“Under the sink,” I say slowly, as if explaining to a toddler. “You know, where tools belong.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering something I can’t quite catch. “I had everything exactly where I wanted it.”
“Right. Because everyone loves finding spark plugs in their cereal bowl.”
His glare sharpens, and I can’t help but grin. Sparring with Fox has become one of my favorite pastimes.
“This is my space,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You don’t just waltz in and start moving things around.”
“It’s my space too,” I counter, crossing my arms. “I’m your roommate. For now, anyway. And unless you enjoy living in a disaster zone, you should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” He scoffs, his dark eyes narrowing. “For what? Making it impossible for me to find anything?”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “You’re acting like I burned the place down. I just tidied up.”
“I don’t need things tidy. I need them where I left them.”
“Well, now they’re where they should be.” I step forward, my chin lifting in defiance. “You’re welcome.”
The tension crackles between us, sharp and electric. His gaze drops to my lips for the briefest moment, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.
Fox takes a step back, his hands fisting at his sides. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning toward the door. “I need air.”
“Don’t forget to thank me on your way out,” I call after him, the teasing edge in my voice doing little to mask the fact that my heart is racing.
Later that evening, I sit at the small table in the loft, typing away on my laptop. The rhythmic clinking of tools and the low rumble of an engine drift up from the garage below, and I can’t help but feel a pull of curiosity.
Pushing my chair back, I pad over to the open door overlooking the workspace. Fox is bent over the hood of an old pickup, his hands moving with precision as he adjusts something in the engine. His flannel shirt is rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned and tattooed forearms. The overhead light casts a golden glow, catching the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—focused, deliberate, completely in his element. It’s a side of him I haven’tseen before, and it sends a ripple of heat through me that I don’t entirely understand.
“Enjoying the show?” His deep voice startles me, and I realize he’s looking right at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I straighten, descending the stairs into the garage and crossing my arms over my chest. “Just making sure you haven’t died under there.”
“Worried about me, sunshine?” He steps away from the truck, wiping his hands on a rag. The teasing lilt in his voice makes my stomach flip.
“Hardly,” I retort, forcing my tone to stay steady. “If you go missing, who’s going to deal with Jet’s antics? He chased Buttercup around the loft until she hid out on top of the fridge all afternoon by the way.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over me. “Maybe that you and that damn pussy need a hobby, other than annoying me, of course.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to let him see how much his scrutiny affects me. “And what’syourhobby? Being grumpy?”
He steps closer, the air between us growing thick. “Maybe.”
