Page 5 of Erotic Temptations 2
Ryan laughed, the sound rolling out into the cold morning air. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”
Some people move through life with effortless confidence. I move through life like someone who’s just been dared to get off the couch. Watching Ryan stride to the front of the car, I fumbled around for the hood release, which, fun fact, was notlocated where I thought it was. For a full minute, I yanked and poked every lever within reach before finally popping the right one. A little cloud of something that wasn’t quite smoke but definitely wasn’t air freshener drifted out.
Ryan propped up the hood and peered inside like he actually knew what he was doing. Which, given his whole gym-teacher/handy-neighbor vibe, maybe he did. The morning light caught in his scruff, making him look unfairly hot in a “I just woke up and could bench-press you” way.
“What do you think?” I hovered, arms tucked in tight for warmth, desperately hoping whatever he found wouldn’t be an obituary for the car.
Ryan stuck his head deeper inside, poking around with the same gentle competence I’d only ever seen in dental hygienists and guys who actually had a toolbox in their garage. When he bent over, his jacket pulled tight across his back, and for a second, I lost all higher brain function. If this was supposed to be a punishment, I’d probably earned it.
He emerged, wiping his gloves on his jeans. “Looks like your serpentine belt’s shredded. Plus, that reservoir hose is leaking. You’re not going anywhere unless you want the car to burst into flames halfway to Walmart.”
I nodded solemnly, as if this made sense. In reality, my knowledge of car parts started and ended with “steering wheel.” Serpentine belt? Sounded like something Indiana Jones should be worried about.
“So, what now? Reinvent the wheel? Call NASA?”
Ryan shrugged, grinning. “Tow truck or you can let me drive you wherever. I’ve got the morning off. No gym class until afternoon, unless you want to chase sugar-crazed third graders.”
I said nothing for a long second. Technically, I could call a tow truck. But then I’d be stuck waiting for hours, and Mom’s grocery list wasn’t getting any shorter. On the other hand, alonein a car with Ryan, my teenage crush, the human embodiment of all things unattainable? Great plan, Alan, way to sign up for public emotional torture before noon.
I almost said no. Should have said no. Instead, my mouth decided we wanted the full awkward nostalgia experience.
“Uh. Yeah. If you don’t mind. Grocery run is the big event today. I’ll owe you.”
He beamed and smacked the hood shut with a thud. “No debt involved. I’m guessing your mom is defense shopping for the cookie wars?”
“Spot-on. Pretty sure she’s planning to win Christmas this year.”
Ryan chuckled. “My mom used to do the same thing. I think she once cleared out the baking aisle in July.”
I watched him cross the street to his driveway, boots crunching through snow. His truck gleamed black against the white, a beast of a vehicle that looked fresh out of a Chevy commercial, except with fewer rugged cowboys and more suburban snacks in the cab.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I tried to pretend the whole thing was no big deal, but my hands did this annoying trembly thing, so I stuffed them in my pockets and pretended it was just the cold.
Ryan started the engine. Unlike my cheap rental, it purred to life like it actually wanted to be driven.Show-off.
Inside, the truck smelled like coffee and pine, which was several steps up from “gym socks marinated in fear.” Also, it was warm, and Ryan’s arm brushed mine as he reached to adjust the vents.
“You like Motown?” he asked, clicking on the radio.
“Sure. Who doesn’t love a catchy baseline?”
He grinned. “Knew I liked you for a reason.”
The grocery store parking lot was a frozen obstacle course. Ryan navigated like he’d been born in all-wheel drive. I trailed behind him through sliding doors that whooshed warm air over us, blinking at the fluorescent lights and the holiday display up front. The store was packed with people in puffy jackets, kids terrorizing the cereal aisle, and the unmistakable scent of maple-glazed despair.
Ryan grabbed a cart and steered it expertly, scanning Mom’s list. “We’re after flour, sugar, chocolate chips, and something called ‘festive sprinkles.’ Do festive sprinkles have a different personality than regular ones?”
“If they don’t, my mom will make them feel bad about themselves.”
I dodged a stack of gingerbread kits while Ryan debated the relative merits of brown versus powdered sugar. For a straight-up gym teacher, he was unexpectedly opinionated about baking ingredients. He kept bumping my elbow with his, steering us around the store like we were trying to beat the clock onSupermarket Sweep. Every time his hand grazed my shoulder to shift me out of the way of a cart laden with soda, a jolt zipped right through me. Was that just me? Had to be just me. Ryan was friendly. Overly friendly. Probably the same with everyone.
I tried not to read into the way his fingers brushed my arm when he handed me a bag of flour or how he leaned close to ask if Mom preferred salted or unsalted butter, breath warm against my cheek. It felt unreasonably domestic, like we might start arguing about which brand of paper towels to buy for our hypothetical shared apartment. My brain was a certified disaster area.
The cashier, a bored-looking girl with pink eyebrows, rang us up without comment. Ryan insisted on loading the bags. I’d never admit it, but watching him haul groceries around was, in a word, obscene. In the best way.
“I can carry some of those,” I offered, flexing my barely-there muscle.
He smirked. “Let me play hero. You get the door. Don’t want you to pull a muscle or I’ll have to carry you, too.”