Page 22 of No Funny Business

“Yes,” I say, and hand him the cross wrench. “Now loosen the lug nuts.” He points to the correct tire anatomy for assurance. And I nod.

Turning the first one, his arm flexes. “Damn, that’s tight.”

For a moment, I get lost again, thinking the same thing about his body. His rugged jaw clenches as he loosens the next one. Oh, man, it’s gonna be a long trip if he keeps that up. Okay, Olivia, say something before he catches you ogling him. “You breakin’ a sweat already?”

“It’s hot out here.”

He’s what’s hot. But seriously, the midmorning sun is really heating up the pavement. Plus this added humidity makes it extra steamy. And there’s enough of that going on. I resist the urge to let my gaze roll down to his waist and keep my focus on the task at hand. But it’s really hard not to notice his behind in those jeans when he squats down to rest the spare on the ground.

Stop looking at his ass, Olivia. “Heavy?” I tease.

He dusts his shirt off. “Nah, just hella bulky.”

Back in Midland, I never had to teach a guy to change a tire. City boys are a totally different breed. Jeep tire changes can be tricky if you don’t know what you’re doing. But Nick’s taking to it like a natural, following my instructions to a T.

I’m pretty proud of my protégé.

While Nick finishes up, I pull out my phone and begin texting Imani that I’m stuck on the turnpike with a guy who’s having his first tire-changing lesson. As much as I’d like to share a good laugh about this, it’ll only give her another reason to discourage touring. So I delete it.

When he’s done, I scrutinize his work while he stands back, watching me. What are the chances he’s telling himself not to look at my booty? “A-plus, Nick,” I say, congratulating him.

“It’s not complicated. Just a pain in the ass.” He begins digging in his pocket.

“Not as much of a pain in the ass as waiting for roadside assistance.” I push off the solid rubber tire to my feet and dust off my hands. When I glance up, he’s sparking up a lighter in front of his face, covering the flame with his hand. I sneer. “You smoke?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says as if he’s saying two packs a day. He takes a long drag and releases a puff of smoke with each word. “You got a problem with smoking?”

I would love to list all the reasons why smoking is a huge problem for me, for him, and that baby from Indonesia, but it’s too hot and too loud out here to get into it. The rising sun is beginning to burn my skin more than that bad habit’s burning Nick’s lungs. So I cross my arms and respond the same, “Oh, yeah.”

“Sounds like you could use a cigarette.” He flips open the little box of cancer sticks.

“Ugh. You really do live in the ’80s.” I’m tempted to snatch it away and chuck it out on the highway. But knowing smokers, that won’t stop him.

“Please, I wish.”

With an emphatic eye roll, I climb back in the Jeep and slam the door shut. Not that it matters now, or maybe ever, but it would’ve been nice to know I’d be traveling with a smoker. Even if said smoker is talented and gorgeous. After another minute, he gets in, squeezing the squished cigarette butt between his fingers. The stench of tobacco fills the cabin. He chucks the butt in his nearly empty bodega cup and secures the lid.

“Well, at least you’re not a litterbug,” I say.

“Hey, smokers are people too,” he says in a sarcastically solemn tone. He probably thinks I’m one of those health snobs. Or worse, a vegan.

“I know,” I say, reaching for the crank to roll my window down like I’m back in my dad’s 1981 Laredo. But there’s no handle. Just a set of automatic buttons that are supposed to make life so easy. The window lowers with a slight hum and soon road noise floods inside.

“I found a shop a few miles away so you can repair that puncture,” I say. “Probably a good idea to have a spare, don’t you think?”

Nick starts the engine. “Be prepared for anything, right?”