“Excuse me.”
He turned around and did a double-take, not even attempting to hide it. His eyes widened slightly and quickly took in my appearance, though he didn’t say anything. He was cute, with dark, almost black hair and kind eyes, but was way too young for me.
“Can I speak to the manager?” I asked, almost laughing aloud at his flustered expression. “Or owner or whoever is in charge?”
He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Um, yeah.” He shook his head, seeming to get a grip on himself and attempted to offer a smile. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.”
He walked off and I did my best to straighten myself, smoothing down my shirt and finger-combing through my hair, which was probably a lost cause at that point. The young guy returned a minute later, followed closely by a taller, bulkier guy with dark blonde hair. I couldn’t make out his features since his head was down, looking at a large piece of paper in his hand.
Then, he looked up.
And bless the woman who bore him…the man was gorgeous.
Piercing, light green eyes. Aquiline nose and a steel-like jawline. Light olive skin that spoke to me of mixed ethnicity. And a certain ruggedness to his appearance that said he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. My kind of man. The fact that he was wearing mechanic’s coveralls that were unzipped and pulled down to his waist with a tight white tank top covering his thick upper body didn’t hurt either. His chest was toned and lean, the spots of grease and paint scattered over his arms only adding to his masculine appeal.
Fuck. And he had tattoos.
If I had one weakness when it came to a man’s appearance, it wasn’t muscles or a mouth-watering smile. It was some well-done, artistic, and fucking sexy tattoos. I had quite a few myself, so I appreciated good-quality ink. My brother was also a tattoo artist, so the whole practice was engrained in me.
Plus, I liked a man who could stand a little pain. Like me.
“Jackpot.”
I said it without even thinking, though I thought it was whispered low enough that no one else heard it.
No such luck.
“Excuse me?” the tattooed beauty asked, amusement creeping across his ruggedly handsome face. “Did you just say ‘jackpot’?”
Panicked, embarrassed, and admittedly turned on, I adamantly shook my head back and forth. “No, I don’t think so. That doesn’t sound like something I would say.”
How is this happening to me right now?
He took a rag from his back pocket and began wiping off his hands, drawing my attention down to his chest, watching his muscles ripple. “You sure about that?” he asked. Before I looked away, both of his pecs flexed at the same time, as if they were winking at me, taunting me.
For some reason, Joey Tribbiani’s “How you doin’?” catch phrase started playing on a loop in my head.
I eventually pulled my gaze back up to his face, eyes narrowing when I saw his cheeky grin. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?” he innocently asked before flexing his pecs again. Dammit, it’s like they were doing a little dance for me.
I knew better than to look down. But I did it again, anyway. “Stop that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sexy Smartass replied, nonchalantly. “So, how can I help you, Ms…?”
I stuck my hand out, forcing myself to remain cool despite how flustered and disheveled I was. “Tucker. Sage Tucker.”
He shook my hand, squeezing it politely. His touch was casual enough, but his eye contact was unnerving because it never strayed from me. Very intense. “Mason Cruz. Are you needing some work done, Ms. Tucker?”
I stared at him, unblinking, wondering if I had heard him right. He laughed, apparently reading my thoughts. It was a nice laugh I decided. “I meant automobile work.”
My face flushed. Wow, that was stupid. Two for two, Sage. “I’m so sorry,” I replied, chuckling nervously as I averted my eyes. “It’s been a long day.” I glanced up at him to his smile remained in place, though I didn’t get the feeling that he was laughing at me. “Yes, I’m needing some assistance. My car broke down just down the road from here and I’m not exactly sure what’s wrong with it. I was hoping you might be able to take a look for me?”
He looked at me for another second, then down at his watch, then around his shop, as if he were mulling over a decision. Worried that I was going to screw up his entire day, since I knew how that went, I rushed to say, “I don’t want to put you out. I can call a tow truck—”
“No, it’s fine,” he answered, his voice low and grating. “I can do that.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a half-grin. “What kind of asshole would I be if I didn’t help a woman in distress?”
My eyebrow shot up. I had a feeling he was just joking, trying to get a rise out of me. But I didn’t care. If looks could castrate, the man would have been walking around dick-less. Which would have been unfortunate because his was probably pretty nice-looking.
Of course, he just chuckled. “Sorry, was that sexist of me?”
Fighting to bite back the string of curses I wanted to release on him, I kept my expression neutral. “Little bit. Do I look like a helpless, distressed woman to you?”
Wrong thing to ask. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth. Because Mason’s eyes immediately traveled the length of my body, taking his sweet ass—and oh, his ass was sweet—time with his perusal.
“No, you sure as hell don’t,” he rasped, those green eyes darkening. “But I’m still willing to help you out with anything you need.”
Well, alright then. With our mutual sexual attraction firmly established, the rest of this experience shouldn’t be too awkward, now should it?
He could apparently see that I was at a loss for words and took pity on me. “I’ll grab my toolbox and you can show me where it’s at.”
Snapping out of my lustful thoughts, I bit my lip, hoping I wasn’t making the situation worse. “Well, I don’t think simple tools will do the trick for this. And you’re probably going to have to drive down there.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay. Well, then follow me and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
He grabbed a set of keys off the wall and gestured for me to follow him out to the parking lot. As I walked past the other guys in the garage, I got the distinct impression I was being watched. But when I turned in their direction, everyone seemed busy with whatever task they’d been assigned. I followed Mason until he stopped at an incredible 1969 GTO fastback, orange with black racing stripes down its center.
“No way this is yours,” I mused in astonishment.
He propped his elbow on the roof, grinning at me as he stood proudly next to it. “It’s mine.”
I shook my head, admiring and envying at the same time. “She’s a beauty.”
He scoffed, smirking. “He’s a badass. Restored him myself. Three inch exhaust, four-barrel carburetor, 442 under the hood, Hooker headers.”
I threw my hands up, smiling. “Damn. Install the cowl hood yourself too?”
His forehead creased, looking like he was impressed. He nodded once, still grinning. “Yep.”
“Your résumé is certainly impressive. Very nice work.”
He beamed at me, throwing in a sly wink. “Thank you.”
I walked around to the passenger’s side, suddenly thrilled at the prospect of riding in such an amazing car. The one thing I hadn’t mentioned to him was that the car was sexy. The very definition of sex on wheels, which I suspected he knew but there was no need to feed his ego. It seemed healthy enough. And the smell inside the vehicle wasn’t much different. It was a mix of oil, cigarettes, and some sort of spice that I suspected was coming directly from him. Mason.
“Take a right,” I told him as he drove out of the lot.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, reached over to the car’s lighter, but paused before he brought it to the end of the stick, looking over at me. “Do you mind?”
I waved him of
f. “It’s your car. Be my guest.”
“You need one?” he asked, offering the pack out to me.
I shook my head, controlling the urge I always felt when nicotine was within three inches of me. “I quit about six months ago. Thanks, though.”
He grunted as he flicked his ash out the open window. “Well, now I feel bad.” He made a move to stub out the cherry but I stopped him.
“No, really, it’s okay.” He shot me a skeptical look but I just smiled. “Honestly, it’s fine. The temptation isn’t as bad as it used to be.”
He chuckled and when I looked over I saw him shaking his head. “Now, I feel even worse. You’re a lot stronger than me.”
“I doubt that.”
“Hell, you definitely are,” he said as he looked down at my feet in exasperation. “Did you really walk all this way in those shoes?”
I scrunched my nose and shrugged. “I may have went barefoot at one point.” I looked down at my shoes and back up at him. “I mean, I don’t have a death wish.”
He laughed again. It was so obviously a real smile that it brought a real one from me. “That’s good to know. What a way to go, though. ‘Death by fuck-me heels.’ I could see it as a headline.”
For some reason, his crass words weren’t off-putting like they would be from most men. I had a feeling that he sensed this too, knew such language wouldn’t bother me, at least when it came from him. The man might have had a confident air to him, but he wasn’t a slimy jerk. And his ego might have been healthy, but it wasn’t inflated. Somehow, his straightforward approach was attractive, even charming. Most men couldn’t master the fine art of flirting and teasing without insulting, but Mason Cruz definitely had.
And I was really, really liking it.
“So, what is it that you do for a living?” he asked, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
“I’m a social worker.”
His head snapped around to me, briefly taking in my tattoo-covered arms, purple hair, and pierced nose before looking away, pretending as if he hadn’t looked in the first place. But I felt that damn once-over everywhere.
I chuckled, not at all offended. “Not what you’d expect of a social worker?”
He looked uncomfortable but it was kind of adorable. He recovered nicely too. “I haven’t had much experience with social workers, so I wouldn’t really know.” He stared straight ahead before asking, “Do you like your job?”
What a complicated question. “I like helping the kids, but not always the job itself. Anyone who tells you they do has something wrong with them. It’s never pleasant to deal with the horrible parents or the legal process. Some days you wonder why you chose the career in the first place. Then, there are other days when you know you made a difference and you can’t imagine doing anything else.”
He was silent for several moments and I worried that I’d shared too much. Then, he said in a solemn voice, “That’s good. The world needs more people like you.”
Noticing the witty charmer in him had disappeared for a second, I wanted to ask if he had some experience with the system. But that was way too personal so I remained quiet. Until the silence began to feel awkward. “So, do you like being a mechanic?”
He chuckled under his breath, which I suspected I wasn’t supposed to hear. “Yeah.”
“What?”
He glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road. “I’m not really a mechanic, per se. I do custom design and restoration work on cars, trucks, and motorcycles. My place isn’t really a garage or your standard auto shop.”
I could feel my cheeks heat and would have given anything to be pulled out of the window right then to avoid further embarrassment. Could I possibly make a bigger fool of myself today?
“Well, now I feel bad.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t. I actually started out as a mechanic and I’m a pretty good one. I just changed my focus later on in life. And I’m sure I can fix whatever’s wrong with your car. It’s no problem.”
“Well, I’m extremely grateful either way.” I tapped my finger on my knee to the beat of the song playing on the radio. “So, why did you change your focus to custom work?” I rushed to add, “Sorry, I hope I’m not prying too much. If I am, you can tell me to shut up.”
The smile on his face spread. “Not at all. I guess I’ve always loved art, but I also like fixing things. I’m good with my hands. Whenever I started in the mechanic’s gig, I realized I liked that type of work. Later on down the road, I ended up putting the two things together and the shop was born.” He shrugged. “The rest is history.”
A self-made man. I could respect that. “You’re lucky.”
He looked over at me with a raised eyebrow so I explained, “To be doing what you love to do. Not everyone is that fortunate. Some people just get stuck doing whatever gets them by.”
“Do you not love social work?”
I flinched at the question but I wasn’t sure why. “Like I said, I love the kids. But more than anything, I guess you could say this job kind of found me in a way. Almost like fate, if you believe in that.”
“I’ve never been a big fan of the idea,” he commented in an even voice, drawing my attention over to him. “Of fate?” I asked, clarifying. “As in, you don’t believe in it?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It has a negative connotation in my opinion. Like you have no control over your life because your path is already mapped out for you. I like believing that the choices you make can lead you down a million different paths and that your future is never this foregone conclusion. The course of it can change anytime, if you want it to.”
I thought about that for several moments, realizing he made some very good points. I’d never thought of things like that. When he released a condescending laugh, I looked over at him to see him shaking his head. “Didn’t know you’d be attending Philosophy 101 when you got in the car, did you?” he asked.
I smiled brightly. “I don’t mind a guy who likes getting deep within the first ten minutes of meeting him. Those usually make the best husbands.”
His hands froze on the wheel. Even though he wouldn’t look at me, I could see his eyes widening as he stared straight ahead. When he didn’t say a word, I burst out laughing. He finally looked over at me, his face displaying horror and disbelief in equal measures.
“You should see your face!” I said, pointing at him. “Classic. Easiest way to spot a commitment-phobe.”
Color eventually returned to his face, one side of his mouth lifting up in mock amusement. “My God, woman. Either you’re a straight-up smartass or a masochist.”
My laughter quickly faded, though I fought to hide my reaction. The latter was more on the nose than he probably would have guessed.
“Maybe a little of both,” I replied. “Can you handle that?”
He seemed to recognize the challenge in my voice as he penetrated me with that green-eyed stare. “I can handle a lot of things.”
Damn. Good to know. There was no mistaking the underlying sexual innuendo in that statement. I quickly realized that I was liking the fact that he didn’t appear to be timid when it came to flirty banter.
Before I could dwell on those thoughts any longer, I spotted my car. “There she is.”
The look of appreciation he had on his face as he slowed the car and pulled up behind Roxanne pleased me much more than I wanted to admit. And it wasn’t because I was proud of my car, although I definitely was. No, it was because I liked the fact that this guy—Mason Cruz—approved of my car, which didn’t make any sense. It shouldn’t matter if some random dude liked my ride or not.
But with him, for some reason I couldn’t name, it suddenly did matter.
Chapter Two
Mason
“Plymouth Road Runner. 1970. Not bad.” I followed Sage around to the front of the car, trying my hardest—appropriate word—to not stare at her ass in that skirt.
She lifted the hood, sighing as she propped it up. “Yeah, she’s a
champ. I don’t see any leaks and everything else looks normal at least on the surface. It made a kind of knocking sound before it died, so I’m thinking it might be an issue with a flywheel.” The sigh she let out ended on a grunt. “God, if it’s a camshaft I’m screwed. That’s the original 383 in there, so it’s not as if it’s a brand new engine.”
Fuck. Purr some more of that sweet stuff my way, baby.
I was speechless.
Who the hell was this woman?
She looked over at me when I didn’t respond, choosing instead to stare at the poor woman like a dumbass. She hadn’t known she was going to pick up a fucking stalker when she walked into my shop earlier. But damned if I could control my reaction when a woman who looked like her talked cars to me. She obviously knew what she was talking about and it was by far one of the most attractive things about her.
Not that she wasn’t the most incredible-looking woman I’d ever seen in my life because she definitely was. In fact, I’d nearly had a heart attack the second I laid eyes on her. Long, luscious hair, the purple color suiting her perfectly. Sharp eyes, seductive smile, and a banging body. But those tattoos of hers were something else. Attention-grabbing from a distance, but the closer you got to them, the more mesmerizing they were. The intricacy to them was a work of art, some of the best I’d ever seen.
Whoever had marked her was a genius. Because not only were the designs beautifully done but the placement of them on her body was perfection. The way the stems of the flowers curled around her shoulder, the delicacy of the feathers that looked to almost touch her neck, the colors blending together in a magnificent moving tapestry. Each one complemented her in the most tasteful way. I was going to have to find out who her artist was because they had already ranked pretty high in my book.
“Mason?”
Sage was looking at me with a concerned expression. Yeah, you’re still staring, you idiot. I turned my attention to the car but couldn’t help my curiosity. “So, you know cars?”
The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2) Page 2