Page 2 of The Mechanic's Obsession

I glance over at the man in question. He's only a couple of inches shorter than Jameson, but his presence is undeniably different. While Jameson is ruggedly handsome in his cut-off sleeves and dark gray mechanic pants, this gentleman is dressed far more professionally. A crisp button-up shirt is tucked neatly into tailored slacks, giving him an air of polished authority. “Well,take your time, sir,” he says after a brief pause, casually waving Jameson off as if dismissing a minor inconvenience. “If I’d have known the receptionist was so sexy, I’d have come in sooner.”

A blush creeps up my cheeks at his words, and I can’t help but steal a glance at Jameson to see his reaction. His brow arches slightly, a subtle hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. I can feel the weight of the compliment hanging in the air between us, making the moment feel charged and a bit more complicated than it should be.

Jameson glares at the man with an intensity that makes my heart race, and then his gaze shifts to me, his expression fierce yet protective. “Watch yourself. We don’t tolerate sexual harassment here.” His voice is low but firm, the kind of tone that brooks no-nonsense.

“I’m Andrew,” the man introduces himself as he steps closer to my desk, an easy smile playing on his lips. “And what might your name be, beautiful?” There’s an air of confidence about him that both intrigues and unsettles me.

I open my mouth, ready to tell Jameson that it’s fine, that I can handle this, but the sight of Jameson’s clenched jaw and the telltale sign of steam practically radiating from his ears makes me hesitate. I suddenly feel as if I’ve entered an alternate universe. This man, who I’ve worked alongside for over a year, has just called me gorgeous, and now he’s looking undeniably possessive over little old me, as if I’m a treasure he has no intention of sharing.

“Hey, dipshit.” Jameson steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Andrew with a fierce determination that sends a flutter of excitement through me. He taps Andrew hard on the shoulder, a signal that’s unmistakably serious. “Take yourseatover there,” he instructs, pointing towards the chairs at the other end of the office with an authority that brooks no debate. “And leave my Office Manager alone, or you can find yourself a new mechanic.” His words are sharp, but there’s a protective undertone that sends my heart soaring.

Andrew looks between me and Jameson, his hesitant smile faltering slightly. “Are you joking? Is this like, your girlfriend or something?” There’s a hint of disbelief in his tone, and I can’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the implication, even as the situation feels undeniably awkward.

I sit there frozen, my mind racing. Where my fight or flight reaction should kick in, I instead find myself caught in that third, often unspoken response: freeze. It’s as if time has momentarily halted, leaving me suspended in this whirlwind of confusion and unexpected emotions.

“If she was my girlfriend, I’d have already kicked your ass. So sit down. Or else I’ll kick it anyway.” Jameson’s voice is low and menacing, and I can feel the intensity of his glare slicing through the air. He crosses his arms over his chest, solid and imposing, giving Andrew a look that dares him to defy his orders. The protective energy radiating from Jameson is palpable, and I can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and trepidation.

I’m still sitting there, my thoughts swirling in a haze, wondering how everything spiraled into this moment. How did we go from casual conversations about car repairs to Jameson suddenly transforming from my boss into a possessive figure who seems ready to go to war on my behalf? It’s bewildering, and I can’t shake the flutter of hope that rises within me, even as the awkwardness of the situation lingers heavily in the air.

Andrew scoffs, a dismissive sound that drips with arrogance, but deep down, he knows he’s no match for Jameson. Even though Andrew is nearly as tall as the mechanic, he can’t compete with the sheer mass of muscle that Jameson possesses—at least fifty pounds of it. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this pissing contest. She’s a little too big for me anyway,” he says, his words slicing through the air.

My heart sinks, and the initial shock begins to fade, replaced by a rush of indignation and hurt. The instinct to freeze in disbelief evaporates, and now my flight response kicks in. I stand up, my body moving almost on autopilot as I make my way toward the bathroom, desperate to escape the weight of the moment. But just before I can slip away, I hear Jameson's voice, firm and unwavering, telling Andrew to take his messed-up car and get out. The protective tone in his voice is meant to shield me, but it only heightens my emotional turmoil.

Before I even reach the bathroom door, I feel hot tears spilling down my cheeks, and I silently thank the universe that no one can see my vulnerability in this moment. Everything Jameson did for me this morning—his unwavering support and fierce protectiveness—feels utterly overshadowed by Andrew’s cruel jab.

I’ve always known that I’ma little too bigfor men, and this interaction just serves as yet another reminder of that uncomfortable truth. It’s a constant in my life, a reality I’ve learned to navigate like a tightrope walker, trying to maintain my balance while the world around me constantly shifts. Each time I’m confronted with this harsh reminder, it cuts a little deeper, a jagged edge that lingers long after the moment has passed. I try to tell myself that confidence is more importantthan size, but the sting of Andrew's words echoes in my mind, making it hard to believe.

I close the bathroom door behind me, leaning against it as I let the rest of the tears fall in peace, each drop a release of pent-up emotion. The small, tiled room feels like a sanctuary, a place where I can momentarily shield myself from judgment and the weight of the world. I take a deep breath, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of my cheeks, and I thank God again because Jameson doesn’t come knocking to see if I’m okay. Maybe he knows I’m hurt and wants to give me my space, allowing me the time to gather my thoughts and regain my composure. Or perhaps, he understands that I wouldn’t let him in anyway, that I’d keep my heart safely locked away, fearing what his concern might unveil.

He’d be right on both accounts.

3

JAMESON

Itoss Andrew out of the shop, the sound of the door slamming behind him echoing in the otherwise quiet space, and I reluctantly bid farewell to what was probably upwards of $500 worth of repairs. I can already imagine the grumbling and frustration from the guys when they find out. It's going to be a tough sell trying to explain that it was all for Amelia. They wouldn’t understand; they see the business in black and white, while I find myself tangled in shades of emotion when it comes to her.

The day I put out the ad for an Office Manager, I was in dire need of someone who could whip my disorganized office into shape. The last person I had in that role was a total schmuck who managed to screw everything up royally. I caught him embezzling money from the shop, and even though I took him to court, I never saw a damn penny of what he stole. The courts keep assuring me he’ll pay it back, but it’s all just empty promises, leaving me feeling even more frustrated with the whole situation.

Then Amelia walked through the doors, and everything changed. She was out of breath, her cheeks flushed, and I couldn’t help but notice how her hair was a delightful mess, strands falling in chaotic waves around her face. Her story was that she’d walked from her place a mile and a half away, which only made me admire her determination even more. And then, in a funny twist of fate, she casually mentioned she was having car trouble herself. With a sparkle in her eye, she asked if, once she got the job, she could benefit from an employee discount. The way she said it, with a blend of hopefulness and charm, made it impossible for me not to smile.

She was beautiful. I nearly hired her on the spot, without even glancing at her resume. As she sat across from me, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, she tried to explain her situation. She didn’t drop out of college because it was too hard; she simply didn’t have the funds to finish her marketing degree. I felt for her, I truly did. I’d seen two or three other applicants who boasted more experience, but in the end, it was that gorgeous smile that completely disarmed me.

The first few weeks of training her were a challenge. I was still trying to wrap my head around the dynamics of the office, and she came bursting in with a whirlwind of ideas for our business. I often found myself having to tell her we didn’t have the budget for her ambitious plans, and it pained me to see that beautiful face fall in disappointment. Yet, slowly but surely, she found her footing. As she grew more confident in her role, I couldn’t help but notice how her energy transformed the atmosphere around her. I started coming in every morning not out of obligation to check her work, but simply because I wanted to see her, to talk to her, and to bask in the warmth of her presence.

I hate that she’s only twenty-one. It gnaws at me, and I can’t shake the feeling of being a pervert every time I catch myself looking at her, feeling a stirring between my thighs that I know I shouldn’t. It makes the situation all the more complicated when I have to pull new hires aside and lay down the law: they can’t touch her, look at her, or even think about her because she’s mine. It’s a possessive instinct that I can’t quite explain, but it’s there, deep-rooted and unyielding.

There’s a running joke in the shop that I’ve claimed her, and while it’s meant to be lighthearted, it carries a weight that I can’t ignore. I might not have taken her to bed yet, but that’s only because I assume she wouldn’t be interested in an older man like me. She’s too young, too vibrant, and too educated for a hardened mechanic like myself. I find myself wondering what she sees when she looks at me—if she sees the man I was or the one I am now, if she looks past the years etched into my face and the calluses on my hands.

Today, I took a chance, although it wasn’t intentional at first. When I noticed the way her gaze dropped, filled with shame as she scrutinized herself, I felt a surge of protectiveness. I couldn’t stand the thought of her thinking she wasn’t beautiful. So, I stepped in, my voice firm yet gentle, determined to set her straight. I wanted her to see herself through my eyes, to recognize the radiance that I saw every time she walked into the room. When her cheeks flushed a delicate pink—what I hoped was delight—I felt a thrill of victory. But I left before I could be corrected, before the moment could slip away and turn into something I wasn’t ready to face.

I sigh deeply, running a hand through my hair. The situation with Amelia has been messy, to say the least, and I knew that my friends wouldn't fully grasp the complexity of it all. They don'tunderstand the connection that I have with Amelia, the way her eyes light up whenever she walks into the shop, the way her laughter makes my heart race.

"Jameson?" Jeremy's voice interrupts my thoughts. "You fixin' your hair for Amelia?" He asks, a smirk playing on his lips.

I roll my eyes, exasperated. "No, Jeremy," I say, my voice gruff. "I'm not fixin' my hair for Amelia. I'm just tired of dealing with assholes like Andrew."

He shrugs, clearly unconvinced. "Whatever you say, Jameson. Good luck catchin' your prey." He flips me off, mimicking my own gesture from earlier.

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