Page 6 of The Mechanic's Match
“Couch is too small,” I say, “and no air mattress. Guess it’s just you, me, and that bed in the loft.”
She sputters, her hands clenching at her sides. “That’s ridiculous. You… you can’t expect?—”
“Relax, Princess.” I chuckle, the sound low and rough. “I’ll take the couch if that’s what will make you comfortable. I’m not a complete heathen.”
Her shoulders sag with relief, but there’s still a spark of indignation in her eyes. “Good. Because I was about to demand you take the floor.”
“Demand, huh? You sure you’re in a position to make demands? No car, no clothes, no good sense considering you came all the way out to my mountain to be my bride…”
Her breath hitches, and she finally meets my gaze. There it is—the fire, the challenge I’ve come to expect from her. It’s intoxicating.
“Maybe not,” she admits, her voice soft but steady. “What are you, afraid to be my husband? Thought you were a man who stands by his obligations?”
The words hang between us, heavier than either of us expects. Her attempt at brushing it off with a shrug doesn’t fool me. I grunt, giving her a slow once-over, and something about the way she shifts under my gaze—equal parts defiant and unsure—sends a thrill down my spine that lands straight in my balls.
“Right,” I say finally. “Husband and wife.”
Her lips part as if she wants to say something, but instead, she bends down and scoops Buttercup back into her arms. The cat immediately starts purring, and Amelia buries her face in the fur, clearly using her as a shield.
I lean in just enough to make her tilt her head up. “Tell you what–I’ll be a gentleman,for now,but one bed or not, you’re gonna have to learn how to share, Amelia.”
With that, I brush past her, my smirk widening as I hear her muttering something under her breath.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sprawled out on the couch, staring at the ceiling and regretting my decision to be a “gentleman.” The couch is about as comfortable as lying on a pile of scrap metal, and my back is already screaming in protest. Buttercup, of course, has claimed the corner of the couch as her throne, watching me with those unblinking eyes like she’s judging my life choices.
I hear soft footsteps above me, followed by the creak of the loft floor. Amelia’s silhouette appears at the edge of the stairs, her flannel-covered form illuminated by the dim light of the lamp. My flannel. I can’t help the way my eyes trace her legs, bare and smooth, the fabric hitting just high enough to make my thoughts stray.
“You look ridiculous down there,” she says, her voice teasing but quiet. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I grunt, shifting to get comfortable. Buttercup lets out a hiss, clearly annoyed at my movement, and I glare at the cat. “Your pet, on the other hand, is a tyrant.”
“She’s sweet,” Amelia says, descending the stairs and walking toward me. “You just don’t understand her.”
“She hates me.”
“She tolerates you,” she corrects, standing over me with her hands on her hips. “And she’s got a good read on people, so I’d say that’s a compliment.”
I sit up, rubbing the back of my neck. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
She hesitates, fiddling with the hem of the flannel. “I, uh… I can’t sleep.”
“And you think staring at me is gonna help?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “No. But I figured I’d at least make sure you’re not dying of hypothermia.”
“I told you, I run hot.”
Her gaze flickers, and I can see the way her throat bobs as she swallows. “Well, it’s not exactly warm down here.”
“Neither’s the bed up there,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to drag me back to the loft?”
Her cheeks flush, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I stand, stretching to my full height, and watch as her eyes widen just a fraction. “If you’re that worried about me, Sugar, why don’t we solve both our problems?”
Her brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
“One bed,” I say simply. “We’ll share it. No big deal.”
