Page 7 of The Pucker and the Princess
I look down at the cables, then back at her. She has her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, wordlessly asking, “Well?”
Offering a sheepish smile, I shrug. “Uh, I’m not sure which part connects to where.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms drop dramatically. “Dear god, you’re worse than my little sister.” Grabbing the cables from my hands, she gestures me out of the way and stands in front of my hood, quickly attaching the cables where they go. “While she probably wouldn’t deign to jump her own car at this point in her life, she at least knowshow.”
Before I can respond to that jab, she gets into her car and turns it on. I stare at her through her windshield. She’s avoiding my gaze, drumming those slim fingers with their ruby red nails on the steering wheel. Then she says something, but with her being in her car, even with the door open, I can’t understand her over the noise of her engine.
“What?” I call back.
She droops, like speaking to me so I can hear her is the most inconvenient thing in her life. And hell, a princess like her? Maybe it is. And judging by her comment about her sister, she comes from a family of princesses. Which makes sense, I guess. Royalty is a family trait after all.
With both feet on the ground, she leans out of her car, pitching her voice loud. “Isaid, what will you do if your battery needs to be replaced?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Marissa
My douchebag neighbor,who looks far too delectable all cleaned up in that suit with his sleeves cuffed and his strong forearms on display, stares at me blankly, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
Clearing his throat, he looks away and rubs the back of his neck then tugs at his tie like he’s uncomfortable this dressed up. Why’s he all dressed up in the middle of the day anyway? Normally when I see him, he’s in sweats or workout shorts.
Not that I’m complaining. If he’s going to be an asshole, at least he can look good while doing it, right?
Giving myself a subtle shake, I derail that line of thought. I’m supposed to be heading over to the garage I rented for my project car so I can work on my baby. And instead, I’m here giving the one guy who’s been truly awful to me since I moved here a jump.
You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl, I guess.
Along with my dad’s lessons about how to fix cars, came the lessons of helping neighbors and people in distress. Of course, I’m not supposed to be helping men on the side of the road when I’m by myself, but this dude’s in my parking lot, not the side of the road, and he’s kept his distance.
He might be a dick, but he’s not a creep, so I guess he has that going for him.
“Uh …” he looks around as though a spare car battery might pop out from behind a concrete pillar. “It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need a new battery.”
My brows raise. “Did you leave your lights on or anything? Or did it just die out of nowhere?”
His brows crimp, and he looks down. “I don’t think I left the lights on. But I’m not sure.”
I nod. “Well, if it dies again, you’ll need something replaced, either the battery or the alternator. You could take it to an auto parts store and get the battery tested. I’d offer to do it for you, but …” I spread my hands apologetically, though I feel anything but sorry right now. “My tools are at my garage.”
He turns that crimp-browed gaze on me, his eyes sweeping over me again, taking in my hair, my face, my clothes, then back to my face again. “Your … tools?”
The look he’s giving me would be hilarious if I weren’t so used to it by now. First my dad. So many of my coworkers and other shop owners over the years. When I first started working for Garrison, I had to deal with so much misogyny it pissed me offevery day. The other women I worked with all kinda brushed it off as a coping mechanism and assured me I’d get used to it, and they’d get used to me, but I never really did. Yeah, I came to expect it, sure. But it still pisses me off every time. I cultivated as many relationships with women-owned shops as I could when I was working in sales, and I’ve made it my mission to hire as many women as I can to work on my team. Smart women who know cars.
“Yeah,” I deadpan. “You know, those things people use to fix things? Like cars?”
He blinks at me a few times, and with a sigh, I slap my hands onto my thighs and push myself to standing, then tuck my hands into the pocket of my hoodie so I don’t give in to the urge to smack him. Or strangle him.
“Right,” he murmurs, looking at his phone. “Sorry. I’m just …” he shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck again, which makes his bicep pop deliciously against the snowy white fabric of his shirt. I still haven’t asked where he’s going.
“In a hurry?” I ask, because he did just make an obvious show of checking the time.
He tips his head back and forth. “Not exactly. I have somewhere to be, but waiting for you to jump my car is faster than getting an Uber or something, so …” He sighs, tucks his phone into his pocket, and looks me in the eyes. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for doing this. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.”
I snort. “What do you mean?” My tone drips with faux innocence. “Oh, right.” I bop myself on the forehead with the heel of my palm, like I just remembered. “You mean when youshut the door in my face the day I moved in and then made me drop my box? And broke the teacup I got from my grandma?”
Wincing, he looks away but meets my eyes again. “Yeah. That. I’m sorry about that.”
It’s only a few words, but he sounds sincere. Pursing my lips, I look him over, trying to decide if I’m willing to let him off the hook that easily.
