Page 23 of The Mechanic's Match
He takes a slow sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving mine. “Maybe you should just keep wearing them. Suits you.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’d get sick of me stealing your clothes.”
“Doubt it,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
The air between us shifts, the playful banter giving way to something heavier, more charged. I swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we’re standing, how his eyes darken as they travel over me.
“Fox,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
He steps closer, the rough planes of his face softening as he brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His hand lingers, his thumb tracing a path along my jawline.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” His voice is low, a grumble that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Good,” I whisper, my lips curving into a small smile as I settle Buttercup back into her nest of cozy Fox flannels. “You deserve it.”
His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet here we are,” I counter, my heart pounding as I meet his gaze.
The kiss is slow at first, a tentative exploration that quickly turns heated. His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer, and I thread my fingers through his hair, losing myself in the moment. It’s electric, all-consuming, just like earlier.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other.
As we settle back into bed, blankets pulled around us, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, coming back to Devil’s Peak wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Chapter Twelve
Fox
The morning sunlight cuts through the loft windows, scattering across the hardwood floor. I stir, still half-wrapped in the blanket and reaching out for her to find her side of the bed empty. Then I hear her humming softly in the kitchen, her voice sweet and cheerful this early. I stretch, rubbing a hand over my face, and realize I’ve been smiling like an idiot.
That is, until I catch the faint scent of coffee. The kind I didn’t make. Damn her for being so easy to get used to.
I walk to the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under my feet. Amelia doesn’t look up, her back to me as she fiddles with the French press. She’s wearing one of my flannels—again. The hem just barely brushes her thighs, and she’s barefoot, her legs crossed at the ankle. My flannel has no business looking that good on her, and I hate that it does.
“You sure have a way of making yourself comfortable,” I tease, leaning against the counter.
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Sunshine.” She glances over her shoulder, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Coffee?”
I grunt, reaching for a mug. “You know you’re not supposed to steal a man’s entire wardrobe, right?”
She raises an eyebrow, her grin widening. “You said I could keep wearing them. Remember?”
I roll my eyes, teasing, trying to ignore the pull in my chest at the sight of her like this—like she belongs here. “Guess you took it literally–I’ll be out of clothes next.”
Her laugh is soft, almost shy, and I hate how it makes me feel. Warm. Like she’s turning this place into something more than a workshop with a loft. Like she’s turning me into something more than a grumpy mechanic.
I take a long sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “So, what’s your plan for today? Gonna reorganize more of my stuff while I’m at work?”
She shrugs, her smile innocent. “Maybe. Someone’s got to make this place livable.”
I snort. “Livable for who? A princess?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s no heat in it. “No, just someone who doesn’t think greasy wrenches count as home décor.”
We fall into an easy silence, the banter lingering in the air like static. She perches on the edge of the counter, sipping her coffee, and I realize I’m staring. Again. I need to stop this. Whateverthisis.
But before I can figure out how to tear my gaze away, her phone buzzes on the counter and a familiar phone number pops up on her screen. She grabs it quickly, her face paling as she reads the screen.
