Page 68 of Tuned To Break
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing a finger that’s dripping motor oil. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” he says, though his lips definitely twitch and there’s a suspicious gleam in his eyes. “I’m just... processing.”
“Your co-workers left a drip tray in the middle of the floor. I slipped trying to clean up oil that was a safety hazard, and now I look like I’ve been dunked in a tar pit.”
“You look...” He pauses, clearly searching for the right words as his gaze travels over my oil-soaked form.
“Disgusting? Ridiculous? Like a walking environmental disaster?”
“Sexy as hell, actually.”
I blink; certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“There’s something incredibly hot about seeing my usually pristine girlfriend covered in motor oil. It’s very... industrial chic.”
“Jake, I smell like a petrol station, and I have oil in places oil should never be.”
“Even better.” He heads towards me, apparently unbothered by my toxic appearance. “Very authentic workshop aesthetic. You look like you’ve been getting your hands dirty—literally.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re beautiful. Even covered in motor oil.” He tucks a strand of oil-soaked hair behind my ear; fingers gentle against my cheek. “Although I have to admit, the guys weren’t wrong about it being entertaining. You look like you’ve been wrestling an engine and lost.”
“I hate you all.”
“No, you don’t. You love us. Especially me.”
He’s right, damn him. Even humiliated and slick with oil, I can’t stay mad when he’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something else in his expression—genuine affection and desire—and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it. My heart skips.
“I need to go home and decontaminate myself.”
“Want some help? I’m very good with my hands, and I know all the best techniques for removing stubborn stains.”
The innuendo in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly despite my current state. Only Jake could make me feel desirable while I’m covered head to toe in motor oil.
“Jake Walsh, are you seriously hitting on me while I’m covered in motor oil?”
“Absolutely. In fact, this might be the hottest you’ve ever looked.”
“You have very strange tastes.”
“I have excellent tastes. I chose you, didn’t I?”
Despite everything—the humiliation, the oil seeping into places it shouldn’t be, the fact I probably look like I’ve been dipped in tar—I can’t help but smile. This man, this wonderful,ridiculous man who thinks I’m beautiful even when I’m a walking disaster, always knows exactly what to say.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“The luckiest man alive,” he agrees, kissing my forehead despite the risk of getting oil on his lips. “Now go get cleaned up, and I’ll deal with the idiots inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make them clean this place until it sparkles, then give them a lecture about workplace safety and respecting their boss. Maybe throw in a few threats about what happens to people who endanger my girlfriend.”
“My hero.”
“Always, darl. Oil-covered or otherwise.”
As I drive home in my beaten-up Corolla—now definitely getting oil stains on the seats—I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Three months ago, I was making coffee and living a quiet, predictable life where the biggest crisis was running out of oat milk. Now I’m running an auto restoration shop, dating a man nicknamed Batman’s kinky cousin, and apparently pioneering themotor-oil chicfashion trend.
