Hannah: Is it good, though? I got you extra dipping sauces for those parm breadsticks. That cost extra, you know. I ain’t cheap.
Me: I can’t eat it because my mortification has killed my appetite! But…this does give me an excuse to try out the fountain pop machine, so…silver lining.
Hannah: My eyes are wet from laughing so hard.
Me: Yuck it up, yucky yuckerson. God, I was in the middle of writing an anal scene, so I was super in the zone too…it’s no wonder I didn’t hear him.
Hannah: STOP. MY STOMACH IS KILLING ME…ON ACCOUNT OF ALL THE LAUGHING.
Me: Well played, whore. Well played. And it’s the burn that keeps on burning b/c my inner cheap girl will NOT let me throw these leftovers away. So I’m going to have to carry them out of here.
Hannah: Oh, I was counting on that. Want to hear something horrible?
Me: What?
Hannah: I was going to do a sub delivery, but then I decided the pizza boxes were more embarrassing.
Me: You’re dead to me.
Fifteen minutes later.
Hannah: So I’ve been picturing you sulking and refusing to eat for the past fifteen minutes and then finally giving up and eating it anyway. Am I close?
Me: OMG, it’s like you’re here with me. That’s exactly what I did. This food is delicious btw. But I’m still not thankful.
Hannah: But you’re always welcome. ;） Best $53 I ever spent.
After finishing my lunch, I tuck the pizza under the chair in the corner where I like to sit in the afternoons because it’s close to the outlets and attempt to go back to writing. Honestly, I’ve had a full lunch, so that should gain me an extra three hours here today.
My hero is just busting out the lube when I notice a large frame standing peculiarly close to me. I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me.
How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here.
“Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero.
“You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap.
“I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.”
“Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall.
“I’m not really sure.”
“Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon!
I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.”
“A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?”
My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.”
“Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.”
“Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and now that he’s eye level with me, I get a full-on assault of just how truly handsome he is.
Yesterday, I was such a flustered mess that I didn’t really have the time to take him in. Now, I can’t help but ogle his entire face. His skin is tanned and damn near flawless. His jaw is square and defined, even beneath that sexy dark, five o’clock shadow. His blue eyes are like sapphires and framed by the thickest, blackest, most mesmerizing lashes I’ve ever seen. His lush, ruddy lips seem to rest naturally in a sort of puckered state.
Like his default face is a smolder.
I got stuck with resting bitch face.
“My name is Mercedes,” I reply and then frown. Why did I give him my pen name instead of my real name? Well, I guess at least this way he won’t be able to look up my file and see how many cars I’ve brought in over the past few weeks. Plus, sometimes it’s more fun to be my alter ego rather than boring Kate Smith, who often forgets to put on deodorant.
“That’s perfect. You’d look damn fine in a Mercedes,” he murmurs, his deep tone sending shivers over my skin.
“And what do you drive?” I ask even though I already know the answer.
“An Indian motorcycle.”
I shake my head. “Why am I not surprised?”
He smiles, his teeth a brilliant white, and I sort of like that one sticks out a tiny bit farther than the others. “Am I that predictable?”
“More predictable than my old lady car,” I reply with a wink.
He smiles again, and I get those butterflies in my stomach that I painstakingly try to describe in different ways with every book I write. Stomach flips. Stomach somersaults. Fireworks in my belly. Wait, that last one is terrible, it sounds like diarrhea.
“Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Mercedes. I’m Miles Hudson,” he says, taking my hand in his and shaking it gently. His palm is warm and dry and so frickin’ huge, I have to squeeze my thighs together because I feel like I may start emitting a fertility musk like an animal. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”
My head drops back onto the chair. This can’t be the end of the road. I’m not done with my book yet! I glance down at the lukewarm pizza under my chair. “Would leftover pizza keep you quiet?”
He purses those beautiful lips and looks down at my stash of barely touched food. “It might buy you some time.”
I smile excitedly and nearly leap off my chair to grab the goods. “Great, time is all I need.” I thrust the boxes into his chest, and he clutches them with a laugh.
“You’re serious,” he states with an incredulous look, his blue eyes flicking over every single feature of my overeager face as I plop back down on my chair.
“Super serious,” I reply, my eyes pleading.
He takes me in for a second, and I halfway regret only putting on mascara this morning. “Very well, Mercedes. I’ll leave you be, for now.”
He stands up to his full height, and I can’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans because it’s literally eye level with me. Not like a boner bulge, the kind of bulge that a man who’s well-endowed walks around with on an everyday basis. With those big hands and giant feet, it’s no wonder.
“See you around the water cooler, Miles,” I state brazenly as I tuck my earbuds back into my ears.
He looks at me with curiosity, but thankfully takes his pizza bribe and walks away. I use the opportunity to admire his backside and am not disappointed. The things I do for research purposes.
“You haven’t noticed a hot redhead in the comfort center, have you?” I ask my co-worker Sam, who’s seated next to me at our favorite downtown spot, The Pearl Street Pub.