Page 8 of The Mechanic's Match
His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he schools his expression back to irritation.
“Finally,” he mutters, pushing past me to the sink. But instead of using the toilet like I expected, he grabs his toothbrush and starts brushing his teeth, staring at me through the fogged mirror.
I freeze, glaring at him. “This is what you were so desperate to do?”
“What can I say?” he mumbles around the toothbrush, his voice teasing. “Personal hygiene’s important.”
“You’re unbelievable.” I roll my eyes, tightening the towel around me.
He spits into the sink, rinsing his mouth before turning to face me fully. His grin is slow, lazy, and entirely too confident. “Relax, Princess. Your pussy might be addicted to me, but you’re not my type.Yet.”
My jaw drops, heat flooding my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He leans against the counter, his gaze unapologetically sweeping over me. “I’m just saying, you’re a little high-maintenance for my taste.”
“High-maintenance?” I echo, my voice climbing an octave. “Says the man who can’t handle waiting five minutes for a shower.”
“Five minutes?” He arches an eyebrow. “Try twenty. And let’s not forget the forty-minute bedtime routine last night. Pretty sure Buttercup gets fewer pats than you give your face.”
I glare at him, my grip on the towel tightening. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re dripping all over my floor,” he shoots back, smirking.
My gaze flicks down, and sure enough, there’s a small puddle forming beneath me. I curse under my breath, stepping to the side to grab another towel. Fox doesn’t move, watching me with a mixture of amusement and something else—something darker, more intense—that makes my pulse race.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, dabbing at the floor with the spare towel.
“And you’re a hurricane,” he counters, his voice softening just enough to catch me off guard. “But I’ll give you this—you’re not boring.”
I pause, glancing up at him. His grin has faded slightly, replaced by something almost… admiring? No. That can’t be right.
I stand, tossing the wet towel into the hamper. “You’re lucky I haven’t reported you for harassment.”
“Harassment?” He chuckles, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “Princess, if you think this is harassment, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
My breath catches as he steps into my space, his presence overwhelming in the small bathroom. He leans down, his mouth close to my ear. “And for the record, you’re not my type because you’re trouble. The kind of trouble a guy like me can’t afford.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding against my ribs. His words are sharp, but his tone is low and rough, sending shivers down my spine.
“Good,” I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Because you’re not my type either.”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, the air between us is electric, crackling with unspoken tension. Then he straightens, his smirk back in place.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says, stepping around me and heading for the door.
As he disappears down the hall, I let out a shaky breath, leaning against the counter for support. Trouble? He has no idea.
Chapter Four
Fox
The wrench slips from my hand, clattering onto the concrete floor, and I bite back a curse. It’s not the first time I’ve lost focus today, but this time, I know exactly what—or rather,who—is responsible. Amelia Grant.
Her name alone is enough to irritate me. She showed up at my garage like a whirlwind, all bright eyes and endless questions, upending the quiet routine I’ve spent years building. Now she’s stomping around my loft above the shop, probably rearranging my life one misplaced coffee mug at a time.
When she called me grumpy this morning, I didn’t deny it. Hell, I might even take pride in it. But watching her prance around in my flannel, her bare legs peeking out with every step, has me second-guessing every choice that led me to this moment.
“Fox, where’s your coffee?” Her voice floats down the stairs, too cheerful for this early in the morning.
