Page 20 of Tuned To Break
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then you better figure out how to work with her,” José grins. “Because something tells me she’s not going anywhere either.”
As if she can feel me staring, Stella looks up and catches my eye through the office window. She holds my gaze for a long moment before turning back to her work.
José’s right. I am completely, utterly fucked, and damn if I know what to do about it...
CHAPTER FIVE
STELLA
It’s nearly seven PM on Friday, and I’m still hunched over my desk, surrounded by invoices, supplier contracts, and what feels like a mountain of paperwork that keeps growing despite my best efforts. I’ve clocked almost fifty hours here this week. My neck aches from staring at the computer screen, and my feet are killing me in these heels, but I’m determined to get through this pile tonight.
It’s been one hell of a week.
In five days, I’ve managed to send out overdue invoices totalling nearly forty thousand dollars, negotiate payment plans with three suppliers who were threatening to cut off credit, and establish a client communication system that’s already reduced complaint calls by half. The coffee machine alone has improved morale so much that the guys seem excited to come to work each morning.
But fuck, there’s still so much to do. The filing system is non-existent, and the insurance paperwork was just thrown on top of the pile of papers strewn all over the desk. I’m not even sure if I have them all, but at least, according to the insurance company, everything is okay on their end.
And don’t even get me started on the state of inventory management. It might take longer than I thought to get this place running like a proper business.
The workshop has gone quiet now. Chase left around five-thirty, José and Asher knocked off at six, but I can still hear the occasional clang of tools from Jake’s workstation. Of course, he’s still here. The man seems to live and breathe cars, and from what I’ve observed this week, he’s brilliant at what he does.
Which makes my attraction to him even more inconvenient.
All week, there’s been this constant undercurrent between us—stolen glances, seemingly innocent touches that linger too long, banter that walks the line between professional and flirtatious. Every time he calls me ‘darl’ in that low, gravelly voice, my pussy clenches, and I have to remind myself we’re at work.
Tuesday morning, when I showed up early with the coffee machine, the way he pressed up against me while I was making coffee... I could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell that intoxicating mix of motor oil and masculine scent that seems to follow him everywhere. For a moment, I thought he might actually kiss me right there in front of everyone.
Wednesday, he brought me lunch—just a sandwich from the café down the street—but the way his fingers brushed mine when he handed it over sent a flashfire shooting up my arm. When I thanked him, he said, “Anything for you, darl,” and I swear I saw that same flicker of recognition in his eyes that I’ve been trying to ignore all week.
Thursday was the worst. I was trying to reach a file on a high shelf, and suddenly he was behind me, his front pressed against my back as he reached over me to grab it. His breath was hot against my ear when he said, “Need a hand?” and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning. When I turned around, we were so close I could count his eyelashes, and for a heartbeat, Ithought he was going to kiss me. Then Chase walked in asking about parts delivery, and the moment was shattered.
But it’s the way he looks at me that really gets to me. Like he’s undressing me with his eyes. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, what I want and need. Like he remembers every detail of that night at Grumpy’s just as clearly as I do.
Because I’m almost certain now that it was him. The voice, the hands, the way he touches me—it all fits. But he hasn’t said anything, and neither have I, and this tension is driving me fucking mental.
The smart thing would be to keep it that way. Whatever happened that night at Grumpy’s should stay buried in the past where it belongs. We both need these jobs. I’m finally building something real here, proving myself in a world that doesn’t hand opportunities to women easily. Not to mention, I won’t let Arden down. He’s given me a chance.
And Jake? He’s been here longer than anyone, has the respect of the team, and a reputation built on years of skill and reliability. Getting involved would complicate everything. Workplace relationships are messy at the best of times, and when one person is technically the other’s boss? That’s a recipe for disaster. Better to keep things professional, maintain the boundaries, pretend that the memory of his hands on my body doesn’t make me clench my thighs together every time I look at him.
I lean back in my chair and stretch, rolling my shoulders to try to ease the knots. Through the glass partition, I can see Jake working. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, tied around his hips, leaving him in just a tight black t-shirt that shows off every muscle in his arms and chest. There’s a smudge of grease on his cheek, and his dark hair is dishevelled from running his hands through it.
Except my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo about professional boundaries.
He looks up at that moment and catches me staring. A slow smile spreads across his face, and he wipes his hands on a rag before walking toward the office.
No. No. No.
I quickly turn back to my computer, pretending to be absorbed in the spreadsheet on my screen, but I can feel him approaching like a magnetic pull.
“Working late again?” he asks.
“Someone has to sort this mess out,” I answer without glancing up. “And it’s not going to happen during normal business hours.”
“You’ve been at it all week. Don’t you think you deserve a break?”
I finally look at him, and it’s a mistake. Those dark eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry. “I’ll rest when I’m caught up.”
