Page 16 of The Mechanic's Match
“I’ve always wanted to learn to change my own oil.”
“You? Really?” I turn, catching her gaze.
“Yeah–that’s a practical thing a girl should learn, right?”
“Sure–if you think so. I gotta tell ya, I’m the kind of guy that will change your oil anytime, City Girl.” I send her a sideways smirk, knowing she’ll pick up on my innuendo.
Her beautiful eyes flicker, a smile shining through her irises that draws me in. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over me that this woman was dropped in my life–unexpected but welcome, bringing chaos wrapped in a too-bright smile and a determined glint in her eyes that lights up my life.
“Is that so? A gentleman and a caveman, aren’t you a man of contradictions. Well…I figure I can’t just stay here for free without pitching in,” she announces, hands on her hips and a sweet smile, like she’s just enlisted for duty.
“Okay then. This is the oil cap–”
“Where?” She leans in a little closer.
A low growl leaves my lips. “You don’t know the first thing about cars, huh?” I mutter, straightening up and wiping my hands on a rag.
“I can learn.” She tilts her chin up, daring me to challenge her.
I drag a hand down my face. “Amelia, this isn’t some travel blog adventure. This is work. Real work. I can’t have it on my conscience if you get hurt.”
Her lips quirk into a smirk. “You won’t let me get hurt.”
I sigh, hard. There’s no winning against her, not when she looks at me like that, her eyes dancing with mischief and determination, as if she’s daring me.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But don’t blame me when you end up covered in grease.”
She claps her hands together like she’s just scored a victory. “Deal.”
Half an hour later, I’m regretting my life choices. She’s standing next to me, wearing one of my old flannels over her yoga leggings, her hair tied back in a messy bun that somehow still looks perfect. I hand her a wrench and point to the oil filter.
“Loosen that,” I say, keeping my tone clipped. “But don’t?—”
The wrench slips from her hand before I can finish, clanging against the concrete floor. She winces, looking up at me sheepishly.
“—drop it,” I finish, my patience hanging by a thread.
“Sorry,” she mutters, picking it up and trying again. This time, she gets it, the filter loosening with a satisfying twist.
“Not bad,” I admit, grudgingly.
She beams, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the way her smile lights up the space. I quickly look away, focusing on the truck.
“Now, drain the oil.” I hand her a pan and step back, crossing my arms as I watch her awkwardly maneuver under the truck.
She manages to position the pan correctly, but when the oil starts flowing, she yelps and jerks back, splattering black grease across her hands and onto her face.
“Oh, come on!” she groans, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand, only smearing the grease further.
I can’t help it—I laugh. A deep, rumbling laugh that I haven’t let loose in years. She glares at me, her cheeks flushing under the streaks of oil.
“It’s not funny,” she snaps, trying to clean her hands on the hem of my flannel.
“It’s a little funny,” I counter, smirking as I toss her a clean rag. “Welcome to the glamorous world of mechanics.”
She snatches the rag, grumbling under her breath as she wipes at her hands. But her irritation fades as she glances up at me, her expression softening. “You should laugh more,” she says, her voice quieter now.
I freeze, the words hitting somewhere deep. “Yeah, well,” I mutter, looking away. “Not much to laugh about.”
