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The car drops me off at work five minutes before I’m supposed to be there. Thank God I wear the same navy blue coveralls every day. No one has any idea I’m wearing the same jeans and tee from yesterday underneath.
No walk of shame for this girl.
My little red Honda sits in the parking lot, waiting for me.
Will there be questions about whose car came to get me yesterday morning? Probably. These guys keep tabs on me like I’m their little sister.
You know what? I don’t even care. There will be questions because I couldn’t hide the smile as it spreads across my face, even if I wanted to. Memories of the amazing night Beckett and I had are giving me perma-grin.
I’m just hanging up my coat when I’m surrounded by curious male faces, covered in an array of different lengths and shapes of facial hair.
Reggie’s the first one to break the ice. “So. You care to tell us what had you outta here so fast yesterday morning? Ms. Grace was beside herself to find out I’d worked on Bessie alone. I swear she thinks that damn car’s terrified of testosterone.”
“She ought to be. You guys don’t give Bessie the respect she deserves,” I tease. “You’d trade her in for a flashier, less reliable model in an instant.”
“Not true. I have my own Buick at home,” Hank offers.
Nick shoots back, “Of course you do, Hank. You’re like a hundred years old. What was the shop like when you opened it up? Were you servicing horses and buggies?”
They love to tease Hank about his age. He loves to tease them about their lack of experience.
“Until you’ve built your own engine from scratch you have not earned the right to say something about my age. Or my Buick.”
The conversation quickly deteriorates from there, the guys ribbing one another as they do. I quietly duck out of the limelight, going to the breakroom to make myself a coffee. It’s the good kind. Nick’s father owns an Italian café down the road, and he keeps us stocked with a fresh carafe every morning.
Today, it looks like Hank sprang for bagels and cream cheese too. I help myself to a freshly baked cinnamon crunch one and pour a little cream in my coffee.
The crunchy cinnamon sugar topping reminds me of the sugar-rimmed glasses of the last drink Beckett and I had last night. I stand by Hank’s old furnace, magically transported back to the rooftop bar. I can feel the warmth of the liquor drink as it travels through me, the heat of his body pressed against mine…
The fire of his lips touching mine, his hands exploring my naked skin, his cock pressing into my wet pussy.
“Is it getting hot in here, Hank?” I call out between bites. “Can we crank this furnace down?”
His head pops into the room. “Stop standing by the damn thing if you’re getting hot. Get your ass out here, anyway. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Coming.” I finish the last bite of bagel, brushing the cinnamon sugar from my fingers.
Today Hank wants to teach me his way to buff out scratches, swearing that whatever technique they’re going to teach me at class tonight won’t hold a candle to his secret methods.
It’s a long day and I’m grateful for the work to keep my mind from spinning out of control. It was surreal, being back at the Village last night. Like I never left, yet knowing I didn’t belong there.
Ashely wanting me at her baby’s birth…
She really seemed afraid, fear clearly in her eyes when she spoke about childbirth and leaving Beckett behind. I can’t help but feel there was more than that to her request for my presence.
Was it just an elaborate setup to try and get Beckett and me back together? If it was, I can’t say I blame her. We were pretty stinkin’ cute together.
Focus, Rhett.
This seems to be the mantra of my day. And my night. I can’t seem to pay attention in class. Every time the teacher says the word buff, I picture Beckett’s glorious body in the nude.
Is this just the next day afterglow lasting a little too long? Or am I going to be plagued with another six months of thinking about him? Constantly. Before I can move on again?
If seeing him once is affecting me this much, did I ever really move on in the first place?
I’m too tired to cook. When I leave class, I opt for a drive-through. It’s okay to get the fries if I get the grilled chicken sandwich, right? I order a diet cola, needing the caffeine to help me stay up for the studying I have to do tonight. I literally didn’t sleep a wink last night.
“Better make that drink a large,” I call through the speaker.
