Page 10 of Falling for the Mechanic
Cameron
Every part of my mind is urging me to ask her if she’s okay. Something has a tight grip on my chest, a fist roughly squeezing with every second that I go without knowing the answer.
It’s an alien pressure, a weight I don’t recognize. Since when do I care about a stranger’s well-being?
Is this what Nash has claimed I’ve been missing? He might be onto something here. I’ve never cared to hear anyone’s sob stories, but I’m dying to know this woman’s.
Not for the gossip, not for the drama, but because the shadow in her eyes feels like a personal offense. I want to be the one to chase it away.
Can’t make her feel better if I don’t know what’s wrong.
Biting my tongue for as long as I can, it doesn’t take long for me to hit my limit. Just as I’m rolling out from beneath the van, she’s clearing her throat to beat me to it.
“You don’t happen to know somewhere I can relieve a little stress?” Still sounding so exhausted, she rests her elbows against her knees. She’s claimed that chair as her own. The overhead light catches the faint tracks of dried tears on her cheeks, and that fist in my chest gives another painful squeeze.
“Might have a good place in mind. Want to get out of here?” The question leaves me without thought, and another foreign sensation fills me. Is it anticipation, or hope? Could be both.
It’s the feeling of throwing a line into the dark, hoping something—hoping she—will bite.
“Won’t I be getting in your way?” Looking at the vehicle, she purses her lips together. “What time does your shift end? I can wait.”
I don’t tell her that I work the usual nine to five job. Lately, I work as long as my body lets me to keep up with how many appointments I’ve booked to keep up with our bills.
“I work my own schedule. This is fine.” The words come out as a smooth lie.
I’m not genuinely sure how fine we’ll be, but a couple hours away should be okay.
Chelsea is on her feet without another word. She’s nodding her head, happy to keep moving. If I have to take a guess, she’s trying to stay distracted.
Well, what better place to do that than The Hollow Oak?
Abandoning the ground, I wash up and pluck off my stained shirt, leaving me in my undershirt. Feeling eyes pointed in my direction, a stupid part of me hopes it’s her. I look over my shoulder, but Chelsea’s more interested in the van than she is in me.
The disappointment is an unexpected sting.
Scoffing under my breath at myself, I shake my head as I throw on my jacket. Need to stop myself now before I get tooahead of myself. She’s a customer who has no reason to look my way.
We take my truck up to the bar, but something tells me I’ll end up abandoning it in the lot with a few others. It all depends on how the night runs.
The bar is as lively as ever. People cheer as they watch the current game, and a pair fight over onion rings.
Taking Chelsea by the elbow, my thumb brushes against the soft skin of her inner arm. There’s an instant tingle against my fingertips I can’t explain, but can’t find myself minding.
I guide her straight to the bar top. Claiming two stools of our own, I signal down Eden.
She doesn’t look too pleased to see me. Again, most people don’t.
“The usual?” She asks before noticing I’m not alone. “Oh.” Her eyes flick to Chelsea, then back to me, wide with disbelief.
Chelsea must not hear the surprise in her voice, because she’s already ordering a shot of tequila.Jesus.
“One for him, too.” She points her thumb at me before giving me a side eye. An invitation for trouble. “Yeah?”
Yeah. She’s got her issues, and I’ve got mine. My usual glass of whisky would barely scratch the surface today. She’ll lead. I’ll follow.
Eden shrugs her shoulders and pours us both shots. Sliding them forward, she tends to the next customer.
“So, who should we toast for the first shot?” She pinches her glass, looking too eager to drink hers down. The neon sign behind the bar paints a streak of pink against her cheeks, her lips, and for a second, I struggle to register her question. Forget how to blink.
