Page 2 of Play Me

“Do you have a problem?” I yell over the sound coming from beneath the hood. The scent of gasoline and grease fills the air, stinging my nostrils. It crosses my mind for one quick, fleeting moment that this may not be significantly different from Gianna’s meetup for the urinal.

I’ll just have to be a hypocrite today.

I round the side mirror jutting out and come face-to-face with my nemesis. He stares down at me from his perch in the cab of the truck with a sardonic expression that sends my temper soaring.

He arches a thick brow, pinning me to the spot with deep, walnut-colored eyes. “Yeah, I do have a problem. You’re blocking the pump.”

“There are literally …” I peel my gaze from his and quickly count the vacant pumps. All of them are open. Every. Last. One. “You have nine different options. Pick another one.”

“I want this one.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

His lips twitch. “True, because I’d also like to take that stick out of your ass, but that’s probably off the table, too, huh?”

I gasp, startled by his crudeness. Surprise siphons the blood from my face. Words wedge themselves in my throat from the shock of the moment.

“ You’re a fucking asshole .”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “Will you move now?”

“I would’ve happily moved out of your way if you’d asked nicely. But you didn’t,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “Instead, you rolled up here in this ridiculous truck and revved your engine at me like some kind of threat.”

He makes the cockiest face—quirked brow, subtle smirk—like I’m acting irrational, and he thinks it’s funny.

“Then you honked your horn at me, which is unacceptable anywhere except maybe to avoid a collision.” I’m fighting to stay calm. “You are rude and disrespectful, and I have a personal rule that I don’t acquiesce to men who try to bully me.”

“Wow.” He grins, displaying a set of dimples. “Bully you? Okay . You realize that you were sitting in your little car, taking up real estate while you had social hour, right?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was talking to my boss.”

The lively twinkle in his eye is like throwing fuel on my simmering fury. “Do it in the office, sweetheart. Not here.”

“ Sweetheart ?” I bark, my eyes widening. “You will never get the pleasure of knowing me well enough to call me sweetheart.”

“Thank God for small favors.” The chuckle he only half-heartedly tries to suppress proves otherwise. “Know what I find interesting?” he asks, rolling his tongue along his bottom lip. “I find it interesting that you claim to be some kind of manners police when you’re the one blocking the damn pump.”

My hands go to my hips as I bite back the first thought that comes to mind because, unfortunately, I know he’s technically right. It is bad manners to block a pump. But they say the devil is in the details, and I try to avoid the devil at all costs.

I take a breath, then wear the biggest, most facetious smile I can manage. “I’ll leave when you ask nicely, sweetheart .”

He rests one massive forearm along the window and gives me the most blasé look ever. I pointedly ignore his pouty bottom lip and the perfect amount of scruff peppering a rock-hard jawline. Instead, I remember his insolence.

“I should sit here all day just because you’re a jerk,” I say, unblinking.

He turns off his truck without breaking eye contact. “Fine by me. I have time today.”

Before I can think of something quick-witted to say— didn’t he just say he has somewhere to be?

— an older sedan pulls up to the pump beside us, nearly clipping the bollards protecting the equipment.

A small, older lady gets out, oblivious to the standoff happening feet from her, and waddles around the back of the car in her Velcro-strapped shoes.

She fiddles with the pump, groaning as she tries to lift the nozzle from the machine.

Whiffs of grandma perfume float in the air, and I suddenly crave snickerdoodles.

I fold my arms over my chest, unable to argue with this guy in front of somebody’s grandma.

He sighs. “Move,” he says more softly this time, bringing my attention to him once again.

I take a step back as the truck door swings open. He doesn’t bother with the step rail but instead hops down with a natural ease. He doesn’t bother to look my way either.

He’s taller than average, which surprises me. Broad shoulders fill out a plain black T-shirt, and thick thighs stretch the denim covering them. Dark hair is cut close to his head. He carries himself with a confidence that’s universally accepted as attractive—and it’s such a shame.

Why waste a package like this on a guy with such a bad attitude?

“Are you doing okay over here?” he asks the woman like he wasn’t just being awful to me five seconds ago. “These pumps can get a little tricky.”

“Yes, they can.” She sighs, clutching her pocketbook in her free hand. “I have a heck of a time wrangling these things. My arthritis is something awful. My John used to pump my gas for me, but he’s been gone for twenty-three years now. Feels like yesterday sometimes.”

“I’m not John, but I’d be happy to pump your gas for you today.”

Oh, please.

I shuffle a bit closer so I can hear more clearly.

She coos, clearly smitten with him and his thoughtfulness. And, although she’s getting played by Truck Boy, I can’t blame her. He must seem genuinely sweet from her perspective. There’s no way for her to know he’s a fox in sheep’s clothing.

“You don’t mind?” she asks. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his dimple shining in his cheek. “Not at all, ma’am. I’m going to be here a while anyway.”

I glare at him.

“Oh, you’re such a good boy. So many young men don’t want to bother with an old woman like me.

” She loops her arm through his elbow, and they slowly move to the driver’s side.

“When you get to be my age, you feel like you don’t belong in the world anymore.

You can barely work the new gadgets, and everyone’s so impatient with you. It’s terrible.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says as he opens her car door.

I stand beside his truck and watch them, trying to make sense of this encounter. He flipped from prick to prince in five seconds flat. My mind spins in bewilderment.

“Wait just a second,” the lady says, dropping into her seat with a huff. “I forgot to put my card in to pay.”

“It’s on me today,” he says.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

He comes back to the pump, his gaze leveling with mine. A smug grin is all it takes to send me back into a free fall. But, before I can get a word out, he steps to the left and out of sight.

My first instinct is to stand my ground and wait for him to finish. If I move, he wins. But with each second that passes without him in my line of sight, I think more clearly. And a glance around reminds me that I’m standing at a gas station, arguing with a stranger over a pump.

It’s like a bucket of cold water being tossed on my head.

So what if he wants to be a child about this? I have errands to run … and I’m getting off schedule.

“If you want to play games, Truck Boy, you’ll have to find someone else to play with you,” I say.

I throw my hair over my shoulder in a final act of defiance and march my way back to my car.

Take a deep breath, Astrid. Get out of fight or flight. It’s over.

I fill my lungs again and slowly exhale.

At least my asshole quota has been met for the day, and it can only get better from here.

Thank God for that.