Page 20 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“You mean like a disgruntled man lying in wait for me in the parking lot?” I ask.
Flynn surprises me by barking out a short laugh. “Disgruntled,” he snorts. “Yeah, that about sums me up.” Then he smiles, likereallysmiles.
And oh sweet Neptune, if I’d deduced him as being a chronically angry guy from all our earlier interactions, this new evidence completely destroys that once logical conclusion. Because Flynn’s smile outdoes both his carscombinedin the creation of downtown, happy dance tingles. I’m so focused on his smile, I don’t really notice he’s moved closer until his fingers brush along the side of my jaw.
“Touché,” he says, his voice low. Not quite a whisper, but low enough the timbre resonates in my chest, creating a warmth inside that not even the Texas heat could mimic. His smile turns softer, his touch lingering a moment, before stepping back and walking toward his car. “Put your phone away, darling. I’m a mechanic. You’d seriously wound my already bruised ego if you called Triple A.”
He moves around the front and opens the passenger side door. I follow him while taking a moment to ponder the fact that one, he called me darling, and I don’t mind. At all. And two, smiley Flynn is just as disconcerting to my brain as angry Flynn. More so, really.
He sprawls across the seats, then turns, getting his upper body under the steering wheel on the other side, while masterfully avoiding the gear shift. As he stretches out on his back, his shirt creeps up. His abs are golden, tan from the sun.
I think I’d willingly give up my Buzz Aldrin signed NASA T-shirt to see Flynn without his.
A small line of dark hair travels down behind a silver belt buckle into his jeans. A sudden urge to trace that trail with my fingers rears its head.
I clear my throat. “So…what are you doing?”
“Hot wiring the car.”
I glance around the parking lot and over to the guard station. “Hotwire?” I whisper. “Isn’t that illegal?”
He laughs again. “Only if it isn’t your car, darling.”
“Oh.” I’m glad he’s tucked under the dash and unable to see my face flood with embarrassment. I may be queen of the nerds, but it would seem my street smarts need work. I should add that as a goal in my Operation Social Life.
“How do you hotwire a car?” Whenever feeling lost, focus on the academic, I always say.
He shifts up, doing a small crunch that contracts the cords of muscle on his stomach. “Wanna learn?”
My brain once again stutters before rallying. “Really? You’d teach me?”
“Sure thing. It’s the least I can do.” The sheepish look on his face makes him appear younger, less intimidating.
“That’d be so cool, thanks!” And once again, I’m a little late in realizing that jumping up and down while clapping isn’t the most mature of actions.
But it does earn me another smile.
“Holy Mercury,” I whisper.
* * *
Flynn
I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face at Jackie’s obvious excitement. Or the fact that her little jump set certain body parts of hers moving. So even though I have to cut the wires on my 1969 Boss 429 Mustang, I just can’t bring myself to get mad.
Especially as it seems I’m forgiven for being such a dick to her today. And last night.
I swear I’d been planning on being a normal, nice guy when I picked her up from work. I’d even spent the drive over here thinking of charming apologies and ways to prove to both Jackie and Rose I’m not a complete asshole. But then I saw her. Blond ponytail swaying, walking alone, at night, her sneaker-clad feet bouncing like a kid off to kindergarten, not a care in the world. Something about her not taking her safety seriously had me grinding my jaw and snapping.
Again.
Jackie opens the driver side door and kneels down on the pavement. How different Jackie is from all the women I’ve known before really hits me. She works, for one. And atNASA.Plus, she doesn’t even flinch at getting her pants dirty.
“What do we do first?” Jackie licks her lips and leans forward.
Jackie on her knees with an eager expression on her face blanks my mind from the task at hand. I take a calming breath before I begin.
“Okay,” I start, focusing on the car, “because this car is a ‘69, it’s pretty cake to hot wire. Nothing’s computerized.” I remove the panel under the steering column while I talk. “Turning the key really just connects three things: the battery, the ignition and the motor. Hot wiring just means we have to do all that manually.” I separate out the wires we need. “Red is always battery. The others can vary depending on the make and model of your car. Though more often than not, on cars of this age, the ignition wire is yellow.”
