Drive Me Wild

by Melanie Harlow

  “That’s it.”

  “Did you always want to be a mechanic?”

  He gave me a funny look. “You talk a lot.”

  “Conversation is a lost art.”

  “I think you found it.”

  I sighed, giving up on art and moving on to more practical matters. “So how bad is the damage to my car? Will it be expensive to fix? How long will it take?”

  “Hard to say.” He studied my MG for a moment, then got down on his hands and knees and looked at the ground beneath it. “Thanks to the pothole you hit, you definitely need a new tire and some work on your front end, but I think you might need brakes too. How old is this car?”

  “Old.”

  “Do you know what year?”

  “I think 1971.”

  He looked over at me. “You think?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what the guy said.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who sold it to me last week. I got a really good deal on it because it had been in his barn for a while.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Griffin got to his feet and brushed off his hands. “I’ll look everything over tomorrow. Make sure it’s safe.”

  “But how much is that going to cost? As I’ve mentioned, I’m not particularly liquid at the moment.”

  “We’ll figure something out.” He glanced down the street toward the pub and rubbed the back of his neck. His clothes were kind of dirty and he looked like he might have gotten sweaty earlier, but I found myself admiring his broad shoulders and trim waist. I bet he had those six-pack ab muscles too. I’d never actually seen any in person, but he seemed like the kind of guy that would have them.

  “Would you like to sit down?” I scooted over to one side of the bench to make more room.

  He ambled over and sat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thanks.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at his thick forearms, his wide hands. “Thanks for not letting me hit the ground, by the way. You must have fast reflexes.”

  He shrugged. “More like good instincts.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, and I looked up and down the street. “This looks like a cute little town. Did you grow up here?”

  “Yep.”

  I waited for him to ask me where I’d grown up.

  He didn’t.

  “Belle Meade, Tennessee,” I announced anyway. “That’s where I’m from. And I’m headed in the direction of a place called Cloverleigh Farms.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Really?” I frowned. “Shoot, I hope I was going the right way.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Leelenau Peninsula.”

  He nodded. “You’re good. That’s about three hours north of here.”

  “Whew,” I said, peeling off my gloves and fanning my face.

  After a minute he asked, “You’re moving to a farm?”

  I laughed. “Does that surprise you?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Well, it’s not just a farm. It’s also an inn with a winery and a restaurant. It’s run by the Sawyer family, and I stayed there once several years ago for a wedding and fell in love with it. It’s beautiful. And it gave me the most incredible feeling. If a place could love you back, or like, grow arms and hug you, that’s what this place would do. So that’s why I’m going there.”

  “To feel the hug.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or not. “Yes. If I feel it again, I’ll know where I belong.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got things all figured out.”

  I didn’t, not even close, but I crossed my fingers and hoped he was right.

  “Hey. Sorry that took so long.” Officer Mitchell and the dark-haired friend came jogging back over. “Moretti was sweet-talking the server.”

  “What else is new?” Griffin muttered, rising to his feet.

  “Listen, I shaved like five minutes off the usual time I spend getting someone’s number,” Moretti said. “You’re welcome.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go over to the garage and get the truck. Back in ten minutes.”

  “Sounds good.” The cop sat down on the bench, and we watched Griffin jog across the street and get into a white pickup truck.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Moretti said. “Griffin is the best mechanic there is. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Do you think he’ll be able to fix it tonight?”

  “If anyone can do it, Griffin can.” Officer Mitchell sounded confident, and it made me feel a little better.

  Those big hands had looked awfully capable.

  “Ready to go?” Griffin asked me once they were finished getting my poor little MG hooked up to the tow. It took some serious effort, thanks to the awkward angle at which I’d, um, “parked.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Should I ride in the truck with you?”

  He looked amused. “Unless you want to walk. But I won’t be around to catch you if you fall.”

  “Very funny. I’ll take the ride, thank you.”

  He opened the passenger door, and I noticed the blanket over the front seat. Had he done that for me?

  Touched, I hitched up the bottom of my dress and climbed in, although it took me a few hops on one foot, and I almost asked him for a boost. But once I was seated on the blanket, I gathered up all the tulle around me and nodded at him to shut the door. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  The cab of the truck was dark and smelled like gasoline and leather, which was a strangely pleasant and masculine combination. On the drive to the garage, I snuck a peek at Griffin’s profile and thought again how handsome he was. Chiseled jaw, strong, straight nose, full lips. I wondered what color his hair was beneath his cap. I remembered the blue of his eyes, and my belly performed a little flip.

  But he was probably a big jerk. Had I ever been attracted to a nice guy? That was another thing I planned to change in my new life—no more dating commitment-phobic playboys or lazy, entitled assholes. I wouldn’t be distracted by pretty lies or empty promises anymore, and I certainly wouldn’t care about a big bank account. I knew better than anyone how quickly money could disappear.

  I wanted someone good. Someone real. Someone honest. Someone with a big heart and big dreams, and if he happened to have a big dick too, well, I wouldn’t complain.

  But there would be time for all that later. My first order of business was to work on myself.

  Just beyond the downtown area, Griffin slowed down and we passed in front of a tall brick building that looked at least a hundred years old. It was two-and-a-half stories high and had two huge, arched bay doors. The façade was illuminated by streetlamps, and a sign across the front read BELLAMY CREEK GARAGE. Above that, etched in the cement, I could barely make out lettering that said Ladder Co. 3.

  “Was this a firehouse?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Griffin turned into the lot next to the building and expertly maneuvered the truck into position, while I admired the old firehouse’s Beaux-Arts architectural details.

  “It’s a beautiful building.”

  “Thanks. My grandfather bought it in the fifties. By then it had been vacant and crumbling for years. Nobody knew what to do with it, and it was about to be torn down.”

  I gasped. “Thank goodness he saved it.”

  “Everyone told him the idea was crazy, but he mortgaged himself into the ground and bought it anyway.”

  “He took a leap of faith,” I said, gooseflesh rippling down my bare arms.

  “Or he was just stubborn.” Griffin put the truck in park. “My dad was the same way when he got his heart set on something.”

  I looked over at him. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Are you willing to take a leap of faith when you get your heart set on something?”

  “I’ve learned not to get my heart set on anything.”

  Our eyes met in the dark. “Why not?”

  For a moment,
I thought he wasn’t going to answer, or might even tell me to mind my own beeswax, but he surprised me. “Because it never ends well.”

  I wanted to ask him what he’d gotten his heart set on in the past that hadn’t ended well, but even I realized it was too personal a question, so I buttoned my lip.

  It was a very difficult moment for me.

  Griffin cleared his throat. “I’ll open up the lobby and you can wait there while I get your car unloaded.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything you need out of it?”

  I bit my lip. “It won’t be fixed tonight?”

  He looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Um. No.”

  “Then I should get my suitcase. Is there a Hilton in town?” I asked, hoping I had at least one credit card that wasn’t maxed out.

  He laughed like I’d told a great joke. “No, but there are a couple of bed and breakfasts and a motel not too far up the highway.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll bring your suitcase into the office when I’m done out here. It’s in the trunk?”

  “Yes.”

  He opened his door. “Do you need help getting out of the truck?”

  “I think I’m okay.” But when I opened the door and looked down at the pavement, it seemed like an even bigger drop than it had when I’d gotten in. I peeked at him over my shoulder. “You don’t happen to have a step stool handy, do you?”

  He shook his head, chuckling a little. “Stay there, Cinderella. I can’t have you losing a shoe or twisting your ankle.”

  “Thanks.” I swiveled in the seat to face outward, and when Griffin got around to my side, he reached for me—then stopped.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, his fingers hovering an inch from my waist.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He wrapped his hands around my sides and easily lifted me out of the truck and set me on my feet. I’d never been much of a dancer, but I imagined this was how Ginger Rogers must have felt every time Fred Astaire swung her through the air.

  Like just for a moment, the two of you could defy gravity.

  He left me sitting inside the small waiting room for about ten minutes. It was small and sparse, not unclean or untidy, but not terribly warm or welcoming either. It smelled like stale coffee and something chemical and metallic—sort of like hairspray from a can. The magazines, though neatly stacked, were all dog-eared and outdated. The chairs were the metal folding variety with padded vinyl seats. One had a rip. The rug appeared clean enough, though frayed at the edges, and one sad, thirsty plant hung on a ceiling hook in the corner.

  I took out my phone, prepared to hop on Google Maps and search “places to stay,” but because this was obviously not my day, the thing was dead. I shoved it back in my bag and fought off tears. I did not want Griffin to see me crying, and even more than that, I was determined to be the kind of woman who solved her own problems.

  Pausing for a few deep breaths, I made a plan. I would get something inexpensive to eat, ask someone at the restaurant if I could possibly charge my phone while I ate, and then secure a place to stay the night. Of course, I still wasn’t sure how I’d manage to pay for it—and car repairs too—but one crisis at a time, right?

  When Griffin returned, he asked for my license, wrote up some paperwork for me, and said he’d look the car over first thing in the morning.

  “Thank you,” I said, tucking my license back into my wallet.

  “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  “No, thank you. But could you recommend a restaurant nearby?”

  He checked the old clock on the wall. “I’m pretty sure the diner stays open until ten on weeknights during the summer. But it’s nine-thirty now, so you’ll want to hurry.”

  “Is it within walking distance?”

  “Yes. Just a few blocks west. Turn left when you leave here. But I’d be glad to drive you.”

  “No, no. That’s okay.” Determined to appear plucky and independent, I picked up my suitcase, and he crossed the lobby to open the door for me.

  But I couldn’t move. It was like my feet were stuck in cement.

  That’s when I realized I didn’t want to leave him.

  Crazy as it sounds, I felt safe in the care of this small-town mechanic with the movie star face and the dimple in his chin and the tattoos and the deep voice and the big, strong hands and the heart he’d learned not to set on anything. I had no real reason to trust him, yet I did. And I kind of wanted to know more about him.

  For a second, I thought about asking him if he wanted to come with me.

  But just as quickly, I shut that idea down. He’d only been doing his job tonight. He didn’t really care about me. He was holding the door open for me to leave, wasn’t he?

  He was holding the door open for me to leave because he probably thought I was a silly, spoiled debutante who couldn’t do anything for myself—a girl who owned a ball gown but not a couch, who fainted on sidewalks, talked too much, and wasn’t even sure what year her car was, let alone what it would cost to fix it. I couldn’t tell him I was scared and had nowhere to go. I wanted him to think I was brave. Resourceful. Adventuresome. All the things I planned to become in my new life.

  Besides, I wasn’t his problem, and he’d done enough.

  He was holding the door open for me to leave, and there was nothing left for me to do but walk through it.

  Three

  Griffin

  I watched her walk down the sidewalk in the dark, carrying her suitcase and wearing that ridiculous white dress. She almost looked like a ghost.

  When she was completely out of sight, I locked the door, turned off the lights, and headed up the stairs to my apartment.

  It was strange how bad I felt letting her wander off alone—I had to remind myself she was a grown woman, she’d refused my offer of a ride, and “crime” in this town was generally confined to kids with toilet paper and too much time on their hands.

  Still, I hoped she would be okay. She didn’t strike me as helpless, exactly—she was obviously intelligent and probably always landed on her feet, but I definitely got the sense that she lacked some basic street smarts. The fact that she spoke perfect French wasn’t really going to help her in her post-debutante life. But I didn’t blame her for wanting to escape her family, especially if they really expected her to marry someone for his money. It sounded like a soap opera to me.

  Then again, I thought as I tossed my dirty clothes in a laundry basket, I didn’t know that many super rich people. Maybe that was normal in their world. I mean, her middle name was Peacock, for Christ’s sake. I’d seen it on her license and nearly laughed out loud, but I hadn’t wanted to make her feel any worse. Hopefully, I could get her car fixed up and send her on her way without too much hassle.

  Problem was, it wasn’t just a blown tire. The fluid I’d seen leaking onto the sidewalk earlier told me the MG’s hard brake line had probably rusted through. And getting parts for a 1971 MG wasn’t going to be quick or cheap. But I’d do the best I could for her.

  I jumped into the shower and rinsed off the day’s grime and grit, wondering if she’d made it to the diner and who’s ear she was talking off there. It made me smile.

  The girl had gumption, as my mother would say.

  I admired what she was doing. It took guts to leave behind what you knew and start over somewhere else. I liked that she wanted to start her own business and was willing to work for it. And damn, she was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I mean, she was a little bit crazy, and she talked way too much, but those big green eyes? Those full lips? That curvy little body? I kept thinking about what she felt like in my arms . . . and wishing it could have happened some other time, some other way.

  A way that involved being naked in the dark, where I’d shock her sweet little rich girl sensibilities with my filthy mouth, my rough hands, and my big, hard—

  I stopped myself before my thoughts went any further, turning off the shower
before my hand wandered to my dick.

  There was no point in fantasizing about it. Blair Peacock Beaufort did not look like the type of woman who’d be interested in one night of hot, dirty sex with her mechanic. Or with anyone, for that matter. She was undoubtedly pure vanilla between the sheets. She’d probably insist on wearing the white gloves to bed. Maybe even the tiara.

  Then again, that might be kind of fun.

  I woke up with a start—I’d heard something.

  I lifted my head off the pillow in the dark and stayed completely still, my ears pricked up. At first, I heard nothing but crickets. I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand—it was just after midnight.

  Then, through my bedroom window screen, I heard the sound again—it sounded like someone was opening and closing car doors in the lot. A drunk looking for spare change? Teenagers causing trouble in the dark? A thief attempting to make off with a client’s vehicle?

  Not on my fucking watch.

  Jumping out of bed, I threw on a pair of jeans and some boots, moving quickly and quietly down the stairs and out the door. Pausing only to lock the door behind me, I jogged around to the back of the building to approach the lot from the alley.

  I scanned the shadowy lot from the back, seeing no one. Hearing nothing. But my skin was blanketed with gooseflesh in the heat—something wasn’t right. I could sense it.

  Slowly, I walked toward the front of the lot, which was dimly lit by streetlamps. Movement caught my eye, and I turned my head sharply to the right.

  A flash of white inside the MG.

  My shoulders and neck lost their tension. What the fuck was she doing, trying to sleep in her car?

  Running a hand through my hair, still damp from the shower, I wondered what to do. I didn’t want to scare her, but I couldn’t let her stay out here in the parking lot. As I approached the driver’s side window, I saw her trying to unzip her dress in the back. But she wasn’t having much luck, either because she couldn’t reach the zipper or the front seat of the MG was too small, and suddenly she dropped her forehead to the steering wheel and began banging it in frustration.