Page 19 of Catching Sparks

I sense a double meaning in that sentence somewhere, but I don’t allow myself so much as a second to start searching for it. “So, yes or no?”

He lifts an arm, bicep straining as he gestures to the truck. “Have at it. It seems I have nothing to lose.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You still have your arrogance. Unless you’re planning on doing us all a favour and tossing it out the window while we’re at it?”

He snorts a laugh, and I fight back a smile. “Not anytime soon.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“I thought you were in a rush?” he says, starting my way, our height difference becomes alarmingly obvious the closer her gets.

By the time we’re close enough for me to spy a rogue freckle on the right side of his throat, I’m forced to tip my head back to meet his stare.

Again, that wicked sense of attraction blooms to life low in my gut before I can shut off that part of my brain. My nipples pebble inside the pretty purple bra I chose this morning, aggravating me beyond belief. Not even the self-righteous lift of his brow as he once again waits for my reply like an impatient prick manages to stifle my alarming sexual interest in him.

Offering to help with this was such a stupid mistake.

With an audible groan, I spin on my heels and all but dive into the driver’s side of the truck, not giving a fuck that he releases a surprised laugh behind me.

I have dildos that are less dickish than Garrison Beckett.

If I repeat it five million times over, maybe I’ll be able to grow back my missing sense of self-preservation.

8

GARRISON

I watch Poppy strut her way to the truck with my fingers curled deep into the pockets of my jeans. I’m helpless to the urge to drop my eyes to her ass and watch it sway with each confident, steady step she takes away from me. My throat tightens, lips drying before I glance at the clear blue sky and inhale deep through my nose.

Instant attraction is a curious prospect, but it’s also the most obvious thing between the two of us. It’s a flame lying dormant in both of our chests, only sparked when we’re within arguing distance of one another. I doubt she’d ever admit it to me, and I’m not inclined to ask, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a slippery slope with a dangerous end waiting for us if we ever acted on such an impulse.

The truck rumbles to life, and I use the distraction to pull my thoughts together. A moment later, and I’m back in the passenger seat, dust tickling my nose and gluing itself to my skin.

Poppy moves with an impressive sense of knowledge and grace as she grips the gear stick in a tight fist and adjusts both of her feet beneath the dash.

She hardly waits for me to buckle myself in before she’s speaking. “Okay, so the first thing I always do when I get in is wiggle the shifter to make sure it’s in neutral. Then, put your left foot on the farthest pedal, which obviously you’ve found since you’ve turned this thing on before. That’s your clutch.”

I nod slightly. “Alright.”

“Once your clutch is in, you’re going to pull the shifter toward yourself and then up toward the dash into first gear,” she explains, moving the shifter in the exact same way. “Then you’re going to slowly let off the clutch while using your other foot to give it a bit of gas. Don’t give it too much, or you’re going to rev it too hard and you won’t move. Too little and you’ll stall.”

My eyes bounce between her hand on the shifter and the movement of her thighs as the truck begins to move. Her thighs strain inside that worn denim in a way that has the cab of the truck feeling too tight. Too hot and muggy, her light perfume doing wonders to stifle the stale smell of dust and dirt.

She doesn’t seem to notice my blatant staring. “Once you’re in gear and moving, it’s just like driving an automatic until you need to go faster. When you want to speed up, you repeat the steps with your clutch and gas, but you’ll move the shifter straight down into second. Most likely, you won’t need to go past first unless you leave the ranch, so for now, you can just work on those steps.”

“How fast can I go in each gear?”

“Oh! Duh. First gear, I’d say don’t go any faster than fifteen. Second, about forty.”

She drives us onto the main gravel road, and I unroll the window, needing air that hasn’t turned hot and sticky. The breeze drifts in, blowing her golden-brown hair wildly around her face. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel in a steady beat, completely unbothered by the hair in her eyes and mouth.If anything, I think she likes the feel of it flying about.

“Do you have any more questions?” she asks.

“Does this thing have a radio?” I pull the question out of my ass. The last thing I want to do is listen to music and be reminded of why I’m here.

“You know, I’m not sure. There has to be CDs or something somewhere in here, though.”

I make no move to look for wherever they’ve been stashed. Instead, I find myself asking another question, unsure of the reason for my loose tongue.

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