Page 15 of Falling for the Mechanic
Now I feel utterly exposed. Every minute I’ve spent with this guy, I’ve been a mess, a problem, a pain for him. By now, he should be ready to kick me out, to reclaim his solitary, orderly space.
Yet, by the looks of it, he’s cooking us breakfast. The domesticity of it is more intimate than any flirtation could be.
“Need coffee.” Groaning the words, I’m already walking toward his coffeepot like I have no shame, using the craving as an excuse to move away.
Cameron is faster. He shuts off the stove with a definitive click and slides in front of the counter, blocking my path before I can reach my destination. He’s a solid wall of man, and he looks as rough and tired as I feel. So why is he getting in my way? Why does he care?
“You need water. Lots of it.” His voice is low, a gravelly command that vibrates right through me. Jerking his chin, he motions for me to give up. “No coffee. Hydrate.”
For a second, I must’ve forgotten how stubborn he can be.
A spark of defiance ignites in my chest, fanned by the sheer proximity of him. I’m no quitter. When I want something, my determination runs hot and fierce. And right now, I want something to wake me up.
But more than that, a reckless, thrilling part of me wants to see what happens if I push back. I want to see that focused intensity in his eyes sharpen, I want to feel the crackle of the challenge between us. This is no longer about caffeine. It’s a test, and I have never been good at backing down once my determination is on the line.
He seemed to lower his defense the night before, while I was drunk. I’m already well aware of the way I act when I drink too much—no boundaries, brazen, all false confidence—hence the earlier apology.
If I act the same, he’ll give in. I’m sure of it. It’s a dangerous game, but my recklessness is begging me to play.
Fluttering my lashes and pursing my lips, I lean into his space, invading the careful distance he maintains. Half expecting him to flinch and pull away, I’m not surprised when he doesn’t budge. He’s an unmovable mountain.
“Please?” My voice is a breathy plea. “With how many hours you put in that place, I’m sure you have delicious grounds.”
Or, maybe he’s the kind of guy who just drinks black coffee no matter where it comes from. Color me curious, but I want to know. I want to know everything about his routines, his preferences, the man behind the perpetual frown.
“Cameron.” Groaning his name, I shy along the line of touching him. I can only imagine how handsy I was the night before. The thought should embarrass me, but all it does is feed this new curiosity.
Why hasn’t he said anything, done anything? Is he any closer to caving? My heart is no longer just beating; it’s a frantic drum against my ribs, a wild rhythm that echoes in my ears, drowning out the rational part of my brain screaming about personal space and terrible ideas.
His lips part, and for a few seconds, he looks genuinely confused. It’s like he’s at a complete loss for words, disarmed by my audacity.
The demanding need for caffeine evaporates, replaced by a far more potent, more terrifying need—the need to close the space between us.
Have I won? Will I get what I want? The question morphs in my mind. I no longer want coffee.
Cameron doesn’t move away. Instead, in a move that steals the air from my lungs, he lifts his hand. His calloused thumb, rough from a lifetime of work, grazes my cheek with a shocking tenderness. His brows furrow low, and I don’t think I’ve seensomeone look so utterly perplexed, as if my very existence is a complex equation he can’t quite solve.
My heart doesn’t just flutter; it seizes, then kicks into a gallop when he doesn’t pull away. Funny enough, a small part of me wants him to lean in.
No—a huge, overwhelming part of me is screaming for him to lean in.
I’m not still drunk, am I? I must be crazy then. Yeah, that has to be it. This is insanity. This is…
“You are a pain, you know that?” His voice is a low rumble, a vibration I feel rocking all the way through my body.
The furrow in his brow smooths away, replaced by a hunger that steals my breath. His hand slides from my cheek to cup the nape of my neck, his grip firm and certain, erasing any last doubt. He doesn’t lean in slowly; he closes the distance in one decisive, hungry motion.
Then, without another word, his mouth is on mine.
6
Cameron
The rational part of my brain, the part that has built walls and enforced rules my entire life, sends out one last, feeble signal.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
But it’s too late. The argument is incinerated the moment the taste of her sweetness hits my tongue. I’m gone. The fight is over. I’ve lost, and I have never welcomed a defeat more.
