Page 10 of Falling for the Mechanic

Cameron

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. Never will be.

Losing people…it’s a quiet, constant dread that lives in my bones.

My greatest weakness, hands down. No one wants to admit it out loud, that desperate need to cling to the present, to chain down the people who matter before they can slip away. It’s a pathetic, lonely kind of hunger.

I’ve been steeling myself for it all afternoon. For the hollow silence after she’d drive away. Chelsea wouldn’t stay for a man like me. A grunt in a grease-stained shirt with a permanent scowl and a garage that’s not even his own. How could she?

Or, that’s what I thought before she decided to give my poor uncle an earful.

Now…now she’s stroked my pride in a way no one ever has. She’s stood up for me, her voice shaking with a fury that was all for my sake. And in doing it, she’s gone and done the one thing I was terrified of.

She’s engraved her name right into the center of my heart, permanent and deep.

There’s no way in hell I’ll ever meet another woman like her. The truth is, I don’t want to.

Nash is asking the real question here. Who is this woman?

My future wife, that’s who.

I want to touch her. The need is a physical ache in my hands, a magnetic pull drawing me toward her. But I look down. My skin is streaked with grease and grit, my fingernails permanently stained black.

I can’t. I won’t mark her with my filth. My fingers curl into tight fists at my sides, the frustration hot in my gut.

My gaze flicks to Nash, who’s watching this entire silent struggle with far too much amusement. “She’s here to join me for lunch.”

Nash snorts, a loud, disbelieving sound. “My ears must be going out. I thought she was here for an invoice.”

I scoff, but don’t feed into his tease. I’ll let him make fun of me another time.

I move. Turning on my heel, I stride to the deep sink in the corner, the one reserved for washing off the worst of the grime.

I don’t look back at her. I can feel her wide-eyed stare burning into my back, and feel her confusion radiating across the garage.

I yank the faucet on, the water blasting out, burning hot. I don’t care.

I shrug my shirt off my shoulders and toss the filthy top onto a stack of tires. Then I go to work. I scrub my arms, my hands, and my wrists with the harsh, gritty soap until my skin is raw and pink. I don’t stop until the water running down the drain finally, finally runs clear.

Only then do I shut the water off and turn back to her, grabbing a clean rag to dry off. She’s still standing there, looking beautifully bewildered, her gaze darting between me and my uncle like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

When I return to her, she finally finds her voice, a soft, hesitant whisper. “Lunch?”

I nod, my own voice low, meant only for her. “Yeah.”

I can’t go another minute without feeding this hunger. But I can’t do it here, not with my uncle as an audience member.

Taking her by the elbow, my touch is firm. I guide her toward the open garage entrance, away from prying eyes and into the blurred line between my world and everything else.

I stop just at the threshold, the sunlight warming my bare back. I turn to face her fully.

“You have a choice,” I tell her, my voice with an honesty that scrapes me raw. “You can get in your car right now. It’s fixed. You can drive away from this town, from this garage, from me. Back to where you came from.”

I let the offer hang in the air between us, a final chance for escape. My heart is a hammer against my ribs.

“Or,” I continue, holding her gaze, letting her see the stark truth of what I am. “You can join me.”

Her breathing has shifted, coming in and out more quickly.

“But you need to understand something. I’m the type of man who gets addicted to his cravings. And once I start feeding them…” I let the implication hang, heavy and dangerous. I take a step closer, the warning leaving me in a low growl. “There’s no taking it back. You have to be ready to go all in.”

Chelsea doesn’t hesitate. Her nod is immediate, decisive, a silent scream of yes that echoes in the sudden quiet of my soul. And that’s it. That settles it.

I’m going to go all in, alright. The plan forms not in my head, but in my bones, a certainty as solid as the earth beneath my feet. I don’t know how or when, but this woman is going to be my wife. I’ll make it happen. It’s not a hope; it’s a fact, waiting for its time to come.

I lead her to my truck, my hand pressed on the small of her back, guiding her as I call out my promise to be back in an hour. I open the passenger door for her, a gesture that feels both foreign and right.

Hoping inside, I catch her changing the station, no malice intended. She settles on the same station that she’d picked the day before, and I decide I’ll sacrifice my sanity to her bad taste in music.

As I pull onto the main road, leaving the garage—and my grinning uncle—behind, she finally asks the question. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere with a view,” I say, my eyes on the road, but my entire being focused on her presence in the space beside me.

A few minutes later, as the town begins to shrink in the rearview mirror and the road begins its familiar, winding climb, she makes the observation. “We’re heading toward the mountain.”

“I know.” A simple admission. I glance over at her, taking in the way the dappled sunlight through the trees plays across her curious face. “I want to share a place with you.”

The tires crunch on gravel as I pull into the overlook, killing the engine. The silence that follows is immense, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the pines and the frantic beating of my own heart.

I’m the first to hop out, my boots landing solidly on the ground. The world spreads out below us, a breathtaking tapestry of green valleys and distant, hazy peaks. I barely see it. All my focus is on her.

I move to her side before she can open the door, my body caging her in the open doorway. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and questioning, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

“Thank you,” I say, the words rough and low, before I close the final distance between us.

My mouth finds hers, cutting off whatever response she might have had. I swallow down her soft gasp, and then I’m kissing her. Really kissing her. Not like the desperate, hungry kiss from this morning, but something deeper. Something claiming.

I savor the taste of her, the softness of her lips, like I hadn’t gotten a single chance to truly memorize it before.

She melts against me, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders, her fingers tangling in the fabric of my undershirt. A breathy, helpless moan escapes her, a sound that goes straight to my cock.

One little noise is going to be the start of my undoing?

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing heavily.

“Chelsea…” Groaning her name, I sigh against her lips as I fight not to kiss her again. The battle is lost before it even begins. “Please put me out of my misery. I’m starving.”

“It’s okay,” she breathes, the words a soft permission that shatters the last of my control.

My mouth crashes back onto hers, and this time, my hands don’t stay still. They slide from her jaw, down the column of her throat, over the delicate slope of her shoulder. My palm splays across her rib cage, feeling the frantic flutter of her heart beneath my touch.

It’s just the beginning. I plan on worshipping every single inch of her in the days to come, learning the map of her body by heart. It’ll be easier without all these clothes on.

A small, nervous sound catches in her throat.

“Someone could see,” she whispers against my lips, her eyes darting toward the wilderness surrounding us.

“This is my place,” I murmur, my voice a low promise. I kiss the worry from her mouth. “No one comes up here. I wouldn’t let anyone get an eyeful of you.”

Gently, I pull her forward until she’s perched on the very edge of the truck seat, her body flush against mine. I duck my head, my lips leaving a trail of fire along her jaw, then down the sensitive cord of her neck.

She shudders in my arms, a full-body tremor that nearly undoes me.

“I’ll stop,” I growl into her skin, my own body screaming in protest at the thought. “Just say the word. Tell me you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she confesses, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it, like she’s sharing a secret just for me. She shivers again, her fingers digging into my arms. “I’m…turned on.”

A wolfish grin spreads across my face, a surge of pure satisfaction roaring through me. I lean back, just enough to see the blush staining her cheeks, the dark desire in her eyes.

“Good,” I say, my voice rough with my own need. “That is something I can take care of.”