Page 15 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“We’re going to the garage to talk about the van.”

“Hold on! What kind of underwear are you wearing?”

“Goodbye.” I hang up the phone and rip open the door, pasting a bright smile on my face. It takes a monumental effort to hold up the edges of my lips when I’m confronted with the mechanic on my doorstep. Somehow, he looks even more attractive than I remembered.

A white tee stretches over his broad chest, its sleeves straining around his muscular arms. What would it feel like to have those arms around me? How would he look propped up above me, all his attention focused on me? His hair is combed back but still damp, and his stubble has been trimmed. Low-slung jeans hug his legs, pale blue, worn, and soft-looking. He tilts his head to the Chevy truck parked in front of my house. “Ready?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer, unable to form real words, and slip outside to lock the door.

Following him down the flagstone path, my heart only skips the tiniest bit when he opens the door for me and waits for me to get in. It smells like engine oil and man in here, and I think I have a tiny orgasm as I watch Remy stalk around the hood of the car to reach the driver’s side. I’m not sure. It’s been a while since I had one of those with someone else nearby.

I need to get a grip.

Laurel was wrong. I do not need a fling. The last thing I need to do is get involved with a man. She should never have put those ideas in my head. I’ve survived for six years without feeling attraction to any man, and now everything has gone haywire.

I focus on clipping my seatbelt and stare straight ahead as Remy starts the truck. We drive in silence for a while, down the neatly kept residential streets that lead to one of the main arteries through town.

“I really am sorry about your tree,” I say in the stillness of the car.

Remy grunts. “Thanks.”

“The brakes stopped working, and I lost control. It’s never happened to me before.”

“Your brake pads are worn out and there was a crack in the fluid line.”

“Right,” I answer, wiping my palms on my thighs. “And that’s…bad, right?”

We stop at a red light and Remy glances at me, frowning like I’m some kind of idiotic crazy person. “Yes, Audrey. That’s bad. When’s the last time you went in for a tune-up?”

“Well, see…” I drift off.

“Yeah?”

“Look, I had it checked over when I bought the van last year, and the mechanic told me it was all good.”

“Who?” The vehemence of his question makes me jump.

“Some guy in Santa Rosa. I made a mistake and trusted the seller when he recommended the mechanic. I needed a van, and I couldn’t afford to buy new. I’d just signed the lease on an office space, I bought the house, and then interest rates went up—” I cut myself off. He doesn’t need to know about all my idiotic financial mistakes. “I just needed something to run around in until I could afford to replace it with something better.” Not that I owe Remy an explanation.

“Give me his name,” Remy says, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “There’s no way that amount of wear happened in a few months.”

“I don’t know the mechanic’s name,” I admit.

We pull into a gravel lot outside a garage, and Remy cuts the engine. He takes a deep breath and points those dark eyes in my direction.

I hold his gaze, jutting out my chin. “What?”

“You got a death wish?”

I flinch. “No. And I don’t need this from you, okay? I have a lot on my plate. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake.”

His jaw tenses. “Yeah, it was. Come on. I want to show you something.” He slips out of the truck and comes around the side to open the door for me, but I’m already halfway out. He shuts the passenger door behind me and puts his hand on my mid back to guide me toward the big corrugated steel building in front of us.

His hand feels warm, the edge of it pressed against my skin. I try to ignore it. The way he leads me inside feels almost protective, and I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.

The garage doors are locked, and I try not to ogle while Remy unlocks them and pushes one side open. He moves with easy grace, his muscles bunching as he pushes the big rolling door open, his clothes stretching and straining against the bulk of him. The way his body moves is intoxicating, and I have to look away.

Life is simpler without men in it. I need to remember that. I can have a fling with my vibrator and tell Laurel to mind her own business. It’s not like her love life is all that hot, either.

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