Page 68 of Accidentally Amy

“Nope,” I muttered to myself, putting the phone back in my pocket and buckling my seat belt. I pulled away from the curb, stood on the gas pedal, and made the decision to ignore my messages until Monday morning.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Izzy

“Yeah, baby, right there,” I moaned.

“Shut up,” he grunted through gritted teeth.

“But, honey, the way your shirt is riding up so I can see your lower back is just working for me,” I said, really doing my best to sound disgusting. “I know I told you I’d stop, but it’s impossible for me to keep from losing my shit when you’re tossing all of this car repair porn in my face.”

“Has anyone ever told you,” Blake panted, obviously struggling to do something to the new alternator he was installing in my vehicle, “that you’re an obnoxious pain in the ass?”

“Oh, tons of people. All the time. But don’t change the subject.”

He laughed but kept working. “What exactly is the subject? Your idiocy?”

“How aesthetically pleasing this whole video chat is.” I looked at the FaceTime display and saw we’d been talking foralmost two hours—basically the entire time he’d been working on my car.

It’d felt like five minutes.

I’d never in my entire life had as much fun as I had with him. It was like our brains were in sync. He always got my weird sense of humor and played with me in the most delightful way, which was probably what made our whole maybe-taking-this-to-the-next-level thing so petrifying. What if it ruined everything?

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that my work is getting you off,” he said, and my stomach dipped.

Somehow hearing him saygetting you offwas a turn-on.

But everything about him was a turn-on.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I said, clueless as to what I was going to wear to dinner. I wanted to look good, but not trying-too-hard good. “I’ve got a date tonight with a guy I met at Scooter’s, and I want plenty of time to get ready.”

“Is that right?” He looked away from my engine and directly into his phone, which he’d propped on top of his rolling toolbox. “Good-lookin’ fella?”

“You could say that,” I said, smiling like a lovesick teenager.

“Smart?” He set down his tool and wiped his hands on his thighs.

“Oh, not at all,” I teased, laughing when he gave me a shocked look. “He requested a physical challenge during Billboard Assholes, if you can believe that, and he also puts chia seeds in everything. I mean, who does that, right?”

“How the hell do you know about the chia seeds?” he asked, looking amused.

I shrugged. “When I took care of your cats, I couldn’t help but notice you had the industrial-size bag in your pantry.”

“You snooping little shit,” he said, picking up the phone so he could move it closer to his face. His eyes twinkled. “What else did you notice?”

“Okay, confession,” I said, but not feeling embarrassed at all. I never really did with him. “I did snoop, but like, quick glancing looks into drawers—I didn’t touch or rifle through anything.”

He didn’t look like he believed me. “What’s the coolest thing you found?”

I thought about that for a second before saying, “Your drawerful of glasses. I took a picture of myself in every single pair.”

“You’re the shittiest liar; youjustsaid you didn’t touch anything.” His mouth slid into the teasing grin that I’d decided was my favorite of all his smiles. (The current top five were teasing grin, sexy smirk, sarcastic near smile, full-on sunshine, and you’re-an-idiot-but-it-amuses-me lip twitch.) He said, “And you wore my glasses, weirdo?”

“I didn’t wear them, I tried them on,” I clarified. “And who has eight pairs of glasses? I think you might be a sociopath.”

“I wear glasses every day, even if I wear contacts for a few hours, so eight pairs for three hundred and sixty-five days seems minimal to me.” He tilted his head and said, “If you ask me, the person with only one pair is the nutjob.”

“No need for name-calling, and no one asked you.”

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