Page 12 of Diesel

“It’s what you make it.” Diesel wiped his hands on a rag, never breaking eye contact.

“I think so.”

We fell into comfortable silence after that. He worked, I watched, and the morning sun streamed through the open bay door. Best morning I’d had in a very long time.

Chapter Three

Ollie

“Stop checking the window, dork. You act like you’ve never had a date before.” Was this a date? Diesel had asked if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle, and I’d said yes. That didn’t mean he was asking me out.

I checked the window for the fifty-seventh time. My reflection in the glass stared back at me, judging my sanity. The plaid shirt clashed with my hazel eyes, making me look vaguely seasick. Fashion was not my strong suit on a good day, and today had officially crossed into disaster territory.

Spinning away from the window, I headed for my bedroom. Four shirts lay scattered across my bed like casualties of war. The blue one made me look washed out. The red one screamed “trying too hard.” The grey one was just depressing. The yellow one—why did I even own a yellow shirt? Nobody looked good in yellow unless they were a sunflower.

I grabbed the blue one again and held it up to my face in the mirror above my dresser. Still washed out, but maybe in better lighting it would look less corpse-like. Maybe Diesel wouldn’t notice. Maybe I was overthinking this entire situation because my brain had apparently decided today was the day to completely malfunction.

The shirt went over my head. I tugged it into place, adjusted the collar, then immediately pulled it back off. Too casual. Or not casual enough? What did one wear to a maybe-date on a motorcycle with a man who looked like he could bench-press a small car?

My hands reached for the grey shirt. Neutral. Safe. The Switzerland of wardrobe choices.

Three minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror wearing grey and feeling like I’d given up on life. The fabric hung on my frame like I’d borrowed it from someone larger. Which I had. My older brother, three years ago, before we’d stopped speaking.

Not thinking about that right now.

Back to the red shirt. I pulled it on, smoothed it down, and examined the result. The color brought out the gold flecks in my eyes. Made my skin look less like I spent all my time indoors, which I mostly did. This could work. This was working.

A rumble echoed from outside, deep and throaty, the sound of a motorcycle engine cutting through the evening air.

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees then bounced back up to lodge in my throat. He was here. Diesel was here, and I was standing in my bedroom having a crisis about shirt colors like some kind of neurotic fashion victim.

I ran for the bathroom. Mouthwash. I needed mouthwash. Had I brushed my teeth? Yes. Twenty minutes ago. But what if I’d eaten something since then? I hadn’t eaten anything, but my mouth felt weird. Everything felt weird.

The mouthwash burned its way across my tongue, minty and aggressive. I spat, rinsed, checked my teeth in the mirror for any visible flaws. No spinach. Good. Hadn’t eaten spinach in three days, but the paranoia was real.

My hands gripped the edge of the sink. One breath. Two. This was fine. Everything was fine. Just a guy going for a ride with another guy who may or may not have been asking me on a date. Completely normal. Happened every day. People did this without having minor panic attacks in their bathrooms.

I forced my fingers to release the sink and walked back through my apartment. The space suddenly felt too small, too cluttered with my nervous energy. My keys sat on the counter. Wallet in my pocket. Phone charged. All the essentials accounted for.

The doorbell rang.

My feet carried me to the door before my brain could lodge any further objections. The handle felt cool under my palm as I pulled it open.

Diesel stood on my doorstep, and my lungs forgot how to process oxygen.

He’d changed out of his work clothes. Dark jeans that fit him perfectly, a black T-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath, and that leather vest that made him look like he’d stepped out of some alternate universe where everyone was impossibly attractive. His blue eyes met mine, and something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” My voice came out steadier than expected. Minor miracle. “Come in? Or are we heading out?”

“We can head out if you’re ready.” His gaze traveled down then back up, taking in the red shirt. “You look good.”

“Thanks. You too. I mean you look good too. Not that you don’t always look good, just—I’m going to stop talking now.”

His mouth curved into a smile that should’ve been illegal. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“My account is overdrawn on coherent sentences today.”