Page 7 of The Mechanic's Match
Her jaw drops, and I swear I can see the war waging in her head. Finally, she sighs, clearly resigning herself to the inevitable. “Fine. But no funny business.”
I grin, motioning for her to lead the way. “Whatever you say.”
Back in the loft, the bed feels smaller than I remember. Amelia curls up on one side, clutching the quilt to her chest like a barrier between us. I lie on my back, my arms folded behind my head, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from her side of the bed with her damn cat nestled up near my armpit.
The silence stretches, heavy and charged, until I can’t resist.
“Your pussy’s already addicted to me,” I say, my voice low and teasing.
She gasps, her head whipping around to glare at me. “Excuse me?”
I nod toward Buttercup. “Your cat. She’s been glued to me since you brought her here.”
Amelia groans, covering her face with her hands. “You’re impossible.”
And then, Jet climbs into my bed, snuggling up against Amelia and whining for some attention from her.
I chuckle, the sound rumbling in the quiet room. “You walked into this, Sugar. Don’t act surprised.”
She gives Jet a quick scratch behind his ears, her laughter finally breaks through, soft and genuine, and for a moment, the tension eases. She turns to face me, her expression still half-exasperated, half-amused.
“Goodnight, Fox,” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.
“Goodnight, Amelia.”
I close my eyes, a smirk still playing on my lips, and let the warmth of her presence lull me to sleep.
Chapter Three
Amelia
The loft is quiet, the soft hum of the heater barely cutting through the early morning stillness. I stretch under the quilt, Buttercup nestled up against Fox’s neck like a traitor. She stirs as I slip out of bed, padding toward the bathroom.
The floor is cold underfoot, and I shiver, pulling Fox’s borrowed flannel tighter around me. No suitcase. No clothes of my own. But at least I have his shirt, warm and worn, carrying the faintest trace of his cedar and motor oil scent. I hate how comforting I find it.
The shower is my first priority. The loft is freezing, and the hot water is the only thing capable of thawing me out. I turn the knob all the way to hot, steam filling the small bathroom almost instantly. Stripping off the flannel and stepping under the spray feels like stepping into heaven.
I take my time, washing away the lingering tension from the night before. Sharing a bed with Fox—his heat radiating across the small space, his deep, even breaths lulling me to sleep despite my better judgment—was an exercise in self-control. This shower? My reward.
The sound of the door slamming jolts me back to reality.
“Amelia, what the hell?” Fox’s voice echoes through the bathroom. “Are you planning to bankrupt me with the water bill?”
My heart leaps into my throat as I peek around the curtain. His silhouette fills the doorway, his broad shoulders and messy bedhead making him look both intimidating and devastatingly attractive.
“I’m freezing,” I call over the water, refusing to let him rattle me. “Some of us need hot water to survive.”
“Some of us need the damn bathroom,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve been in here for half an hour.”
“Twenty minutes,” I correct, grinning to myself. “And you’re just going to have to wait.”
“Not a chance.” He steps closer, and before I can protest, he pulls back the curtain just enough to glare at me. His dark eyes lock onto mine, frustration burning in them like embers.
“Fox!” I shriek, clutching the towel I’ve draped over the rod. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’ve been dying to use the bathroom,” he growls, his gaze dropping for half a second before snapping back up. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth is infuriating.
“Then go,” I snap, stepping out of the shower with as much dignity as I can muster, clutching the towel around me. The water drips from my hair, pooling at my feet. “I’m done.”
