Page 7 of Falling for the Mechanic

Chelsea

I wake up to the smell of motor oil and pine. It takes opening my eyes to see I have my face pressed into a pillow that isn’t mine.

Jerking into a sitting position, I survive two seconds of realizing I’m in a room I don’t recognize before the world spins and my entire head throbs.

Pinching my eyes shut until everything stills, I push the blanket away from my body to see I’m still in the same clothes as yesterday. The spot next to me is empty, and I don’t think anyone is occupying it.

Whose house am I in? Did I let a stranger take me home? I didn’t lose something precious, did I?

Heat spreads to my cheeks when the first thing I recall is Cameron carrying me here. I can’t believe I let him. His poor back. I’m going to have to apologize, aren’t I?

Groaning, I look next to me and see a tall glass of water already waiting with a few painkillers with my name written all over them.

Taking them and consuming the entire glass, I slowly leave the bed. Can’t remember the last time I had such a bad hangover.

Ugh.

My cellphone is on the nightstand, and, hardly to my surprise, Finn has messaged me and left a few voicemails. I’m half expecting a search party to be happening in town when I leave this place.

Before it gets taken that far, I shoot him a text, apologizing to him in between explaining what happened.

Staying with a friend seems a little far-fetched, so I tell him I hooked up with someone at the bar. A lie, I’m sure, but more believable.

Not like my brother knows his twenty-six-year-old sister is still a virgin, nor should he.

My phone immediately vibrates, text after text, all of him scolding me. Then finally, he asks if I’m okay. Not physically.

Honestly, despite the pounding headache, I do feel better. I think I released a lot of weight that’s been building on my chest by talking a poor guy’s ear off.

Cameron.

Tucking my phone away, I leave the room. Drinking in the quiet home with each step, I enter an open space made up of a living room and kitchen.

Big place for just one guy. How does he afford this place with a failing business?

The memory of him groaning about his parents comes back hazy, but I can assume the house probably got passed down to him.

I find Cameron jabbing at a pan on the stove, his back turned to me. Unaware of his sudden audience, I help myself to the view.

Oh boy.

I’d be a liar if I said he wasn’t attractive, but that word feels too small, too simple for what he is.

All this time, I’ve caught myself watching him without realizing, drawn in by some magnetic pull I don’t understand.

It’s a miracle I haven’t been caught yet.

From behind, he’s a wall of a man. His shoulders are impossibly broad, stretching the fabric of his grey t-shirt taut across a back that slopes down to a lean waist. The muscles in his arms bunch and flex with every movement as he tends to the food.

They’re thick, corded with strength I don’t see too often.

A hot flush immediately creeps up my neck. My mind betrays me, conjuring the vivid, dizzying memory of those same arms hooked under my knees, those same shoulders bearing my weight as he carried me home last night.

The sensation of being so effortlessly held, so completely surrounded by his strength, replays in a loop. A slow, molten heat begins to drip toward my core, and I sway, leaning against the wall for support.

Even though he looks like he could bite off my head if he wanted, I’m starting to get used to his frown. Some people are just grumpy, and he makes the look come off sexy.

My cheeks are on fire just from thinking about it, from staring. And that’s when it happens.

He chooses that exact moment to glance over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine. I freeze, a deer in the headlights of his gaze, my breath hitching in my throat. Caught.

His mouth curves, but it’s not downward. This guy smiles, and the world spins all over again. Sure, it’s probably in a mocking, amused manner, but the butterflies in my stomach can’t tell the difference.

The longer I look at him, the more I risk doing something stupid, something I can’t take back—like crossing the space between us and tracing that smile with my fingertip just to see if it’s real.

“Um, sorry.” The apology feels foreign and flimsy on my tongue, a weak shield for the riot of feelings he’s stirring up.

It has the opposite effect than intended; his smile lessens, not into a frown, but into something more thoughtful. The amusement fades, leaving behind a focus that feels dangerously intimate.

“Last night, I must have been the biggest pain.” The words are a murmur, a confession meant to push him away before this dizzying pull draws me in too deep.

He rolls a shoulder, a lazy, effortless gesture that speaks of a strength I am achingly aware of. He hardly cares more than he should.

“It was also amazing and much needed, so thank you.” Walking in his direction feels like stepping into a field of gravity that belongs solely to him.

I can’t fight off the urge to yawn. I slept like a rock, a deep, dreamless sleep I hadn’t realized I was capable of, but my body still feels exhausted, humming with a new, unfamiliar awareness.

“Pills helping?” His eyes follow me, a tracking gaze that misses nothing. It’s like he actually cares that I’m comfortable, that I’m okay, and the genuine concern in his rough voice is a direct hit to my defenses. “Chelsea.”

My breath catches at the concerned tone behind the way he says my name. I hum, a weak, non-committal sound as the heat on my cheeks becomes a full-blown inferno, spreading to the tips of my ears. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Now I feel utterly exposed. Every minute I’ve spent with this guy, I’ve been a mess, a problem, a pain for him. By now, he should be ready to kick me out, to reclaim his solitary, orderly space.

Yet, by the looks of it, he’s cooking us breakfast. The domesticity of it is more intimate than any flirtation could be.

“Need coffee.” Groaning the words, I’m already walking toward his coffeepot like I have no shame, using the craving as an excuse to move away.

Cameron is faster. He shuts off the stove with a definitive click and slides in front of the counter, blocking my path before I can reach my destination. He’s a solid wall of man, and he looks as rough and tired as I feel. So why is he getting in my way? Why does he care?

“You need water. Lots of it.” His voice is low, a gravelly command that vibrates right through me. Jerking his chin, he motions for me to give up. “No coffee. Hydrate.”

For a second, I must’ve forgotten how stubborn he can be.

A spark of defiance ignites in my chest, fanned by the sheer proximity of him. I’m no quitter. When I want something, my determination runs hot and fierce. And right now, I want something to wake me up.

But more than that, a reckless, thrilling part of me wants to see what happens if I push back.

I want to see that focused intensity in his eyes sharpen, I want to feel the crackle of the challenge between us.

This is no longer about caffeine. It’s a test, and I have never been good at backing down once my determination is on the line.

He seemed to lower his defense the night before, while I was drunk. I’m already well aware of the way I act when I drink too much—no boundaries, brazen, all false confidence—hence the earlier apology.

If I act the same, he’ll give in. I’m sure of it. It’s a dangerous game, but my recklessness is begging me to play.

Fluttering my lashes and pursing my lips, I lean into his space, invading the careful distance he maintains. Half expecting him to flinch and pull away, I’m not surprised when he doesn’t budge. He’s an unmovable mountain.

“Please?” My voice is a breathy plea. “With how many hours you put in that place, I’m sure you have delicious grounds.”

Or, maybe he’s the kind of guy who just drinks black coffee no matter where it comes from. Color me curious, but I want to know. I want to know everything about his routines, his preferences, the man behind the perpetual frown.

“Cameron.” Groaning his name, I shy along the line of touching him. I can only imagine how handsy I was the night before. The thought should embarrass me, but all it does is feed this new curiosity.

Why hasn’t he said anything, done anything? Is he any closer to caving? My heart is no longer just beating; it’s a frantic drum against my ribs, a wild rhythm that echoes in my ears, drowning out the rational part of my brain screaming about personal space and terrible ideas.

His lips part, and for a few seconds, he looks genuinely confused. It’s like he’s at a complete loss for words, disarmed by my audacity.

The demanding need for caffeine evaporates, replaced by a far more potent, more terrifying need—the need to close the space between us.

Have I won? Will I get what I want? The question morphs in my mind. I no longer want coffee.

Cameron doesn’t move away. Instead, in a move that steals the air from my lungs, he lifts his hand.

His calloused thumb, rough from a lifetime of work, grazes my cheek with a shocking tenderness.

His brows furrow low, and I don’t think I’ve seen someone look so utterly perplexed, as if my very existence is a complex equation he can’t quite solve.

My heart doesn’t just flutter; it seizes, then kicks into a gallop when he doesn’t pull away. Funny enough, a small part of me wants him to lean in.

No—a huge, overwhelming part of me is screaming for him to lean in.

I’m not still drunk, am I? I must be crazy then. Yeah, that has to be it. This is insanity. This is…

“You are a pain, you know that?” His voice is a low rumble, a vibration I feel rocking all the way through my body.

The furrow in his brow smooths away, replaced by a hunger that steals my breath. His hand slides from my cheek to cup the nape of my neck, his grip firm and certain, erasing any last doubt. He doesn’t lean in slowly; he closes the distance in one decisive, hungry motion.

Then, without another word, his mouth is on mine.