by Amy Daws
I growl and take a drink of my beer, trying hard not to squeeze the pilsner glass until it breaks in my grip. Jocelyn Vanbeek has wasted too much of my life already. Most twenty-something guys are sleeping with as many girls as they can while I spent the best years of my life obsessing over one girl. I was in a constant state of on-again, off-again hell with her for nearly a decade.
Now I’m thirty years old, and I’ve finally put that drama behind me. Never mind the fact that she’s married and a mother now.
I take a moody sip of my beer and turn in my barstool to take in the handful of female prospects for this evening. “God, I hate that Boulder is such a sausage fest. Why do we live here again?”
“Uh, cuz my uncle is the manager, and no other boss would put up with our shit.”
I smile and point out a hot brunette in the corner. “And maybe that?”
Sam shakes his head. “Making up for lost time—I get it. You do you, bro.” He claps me on the back, and I proceed to make my move.
The next day, like some sort of stalker, I have my eyes glued to the window that overlooks the alley behind the garage. I’m on tire changes all day, which is nice in a way because it’s mindless work. It’s a little time consuming, though, because I have to clean out the wheel wells and readjust the alignment, but I’m not complaining. It makes it easy for me to keep an eye out for Mercedes sneaking around.
It’s nearing the end of the day, and I’m beginning to annoy myself with how often I’ve looked out that damn window. Instead of cleaning up my station for tomorrow, I decide to clock out early, clean myself up, and brave the quiet Customer Comfort Center for a little coffee before I head out.
Coverall-free and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I walk into the empty waiting area and can’t help but smile when the only soul in sight is a redhead standing in front of the coffee machine. The shop is due to close in fifteen minutes, but she’s still hitting the caffeine like a boss.
Her back is turned to me as she waits for the machine to dispense her drink, so I take the opportunity to ogle the revealing cut of her denim shorts. They are frayed at the ends, true-blue Daisy Dukes that show off the muscular lines of her legs. A sliver of creamy skin peeks out beneath her gray tee when she reaches for a napkin, and I can’t help but drool a little at the perfect curve of her waistline.
The brunette at the pub last night had a boyfriend, so I may be extra eager to figure out the redhead’s story today. I raise my shoulders and stride over toward Mercedes with purpose. Our arms brush as I move to stand beside her and casually reach into the bakery case for a cookie.
Her head turns, and I look over to shoot her a smile. She stares down at my body first and then slowly moves her gaze up to my face.
I hit her with a wink and puzzle over the fact that she looks kind of pale. “Hey there, Red.”
She looks like she’s going to reply when suddenly, her face falls, and her eyes roll to the back of her head. She begins swaying, and with a cursed expletive, I fall to my knees and catch her right before her head hits the ground.
“Mercedes!” I exclaim, adjusting her head in my lap and pushing the strands of red hair away from her face. “Mercedes, are you okay?”
Her eyes blink rapidly, a little unfocused, then open. She looks first at the ceiling then over to me. “Miles, was it?”
I have to laugh a little at how normal she sounds. “Yeah, Miles.”
“What’s going on?” she asks, her vision becoming more focused with every passing second.
“I think maybe you fainted. Have you ever fainted before?”
She groans and brings her hand to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Only when I don’t eat.”
“You haven’t eaten today?” I ask, shaking my head at her and glancing at the full rack of cookies next to the coffee machine. “How long have you been here?”
“Only since nine.”
“Jesus Christ,” I nearly growl. “Why didn’t you eat a cookie at least?”
“I don’t like to eat all the cookies,” she nearly whines, still clearly a bit foggy from her spell. “Betty works so hard on them. It’s bad enough I drink so much coffee.” Her chin wobbles, and my jaw drops when I see tears filling her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask and try not to laugh as I brush away a wet tear path on her cheek. She looks so fucking cute, I think I might be in love.
“I just…I feel bad for Betty. No one ever tells her how good those cookies are. I got here early to try her danishes, and they were already gone. How crazy is that? Betty has to get up so early to make those fresh every day, and people gobble them up in seconds. I wonder if anyone appreciates her in her life? Do you know if she’s married?”
My abs vibrate as I bite my lip and try to stifle back the laugh bubbling inside me. I don’t know how much coffee she’s had today, but I’m certain it was way too much. “Betty gets a hug from me every time I see her. She knows the guys in the shop love her baked goods.”
“Really?” Mercedes croaks, her eyes filling with hope.
“Really.”
“That’s really sweet.” Her chin does that trembling thing again. “I’m sorry, I get emotional when I’m hungry. You know how some people get hangry? Hungry and angry? I get emongry. Emotional and hungry. It’s a thing. I got them to enter it in Urban Dictionary.”
If she didn’t look so pathetic, I’d be full-on belly laughing. “Well, let’s go get you something to eat then. Real food, not cookies.”
“I can take myself,” she states, moving to sit up.
I haul her up to her feet, my hands snaking around her small waist to steady her when she sways slightly. “No way, Red. You’re not driving like this. My bike is right out back.”
“I just fainted, and you want me to get on the back of your motorcycle? How is that a better option?”
She makes a good point, so I pivot quickly. “Then give me your keys, and I’ll drive your car. You’re drunk on coffee and starvation right now, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until you eat some pizza.”
“I love pizza,” she replies tearfully.
“I know.”
“How do you know?” She pins me with a serious look, her blue eyes bright and hopeful.
“Well, most people love pizza.” I shrug. “And you had a pizza shirt on the other day and pizza delivered here yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and makes her way over to her computer where it rests on an end table. She closes her laptop and slides it into her bag. “A quick bite and I’ll quit bugging you.”
“Nah, you’re not bugging me,” I reply, stuffing my hands into my pockets. Maybe Sam’s right—I do have a thing for damsels in distress.
“Please,” she retorts with an eye roll. “I practically fainted in your arms. We couldn’t get more book-worthy if we tried.”
She strides over and looks sheepishly up at me, the color already returning to her cheeks. I clasp her hand gently and pin her with a serious look. “Mercedes, there’s no need to be embarrassed. This is not the first time I’ve had a girl faint at the sight of me.”
She barks out a laugh and yanks her hand out of mine to smack me in the stomach. “Just feed me before you start reciting any more cheesy romance novel lines.”
It’s weird to hear Miles call me Mercedes, but not really if I think about it. I go to book signings all over the world where readers and author friends alike all call me Mercedes. A few people in the book world actually know my real name, but they never use it because they don’t want to make the mistake of outing my real name to readers. So in the book world, I’m Mercedes, through and through.
But my Boulder friends know me as Kate.
And now Miles knows me as Mercedes.
This could get tricky.
But then again, we’re just getting pizza. It’s not like we’re becoming Facebook friends or something. I’m making a big deal out of nothing.
Miles pulls my car up in front of Audrey Jane’s Pizza Garage. It
’s a hot spot in Boulder that serves tasty New York-style pizza. My mouth is already watering before we even get out of my vehicle.
I slide out of the passenger door, and Miles is right there, grabbing my hand like I’m some kind of surgical patient who just got a boob job. I pull my hand out of his. “I can walk, Miles. I feel better already. The fresh air is helping.”
He nods and respectfully gives me my space while closing the door for me. “Why don’t you grab one of the open patio tables, and I’ll go order us a pie. Any topping objections?”
“No onions,” I state seriously. “Those things are nasty and have no place on pizza.”
“What about red onions?”
I narrow my eyes.
He holds his hands up and smiles. “Okay, okay, no onions.”
He turns and takes the steps up to the restaurant entrance, two at a time, looking like some sort of mammoth gladiator in a world built for mere mortals. Jesus, he’s so big, the steps are almost too tiny for him. And I swear he gets hotter every time I see him. Those jeans hug his ass perfectly, and I gotta say, I never thought combat boots were my thing, but on Miles, paired with those worn jeans, that tight black T-shirt, and his tanned skin? The whole mechanic-biker look is seriously working.
I find a table far away from the acoustic guitarist crooning in the corner. Boulder in the summers is like a haven for happy hours on restaurant patios with live music everywhere the eye can see. The city is bursting with aspiring musicians looking for a mic and an amp.
A few minutes later, Miles is back and has a couple of bottles of water, a bucket of beer, an order number on a stand, and a basket of steaming breadsticks.
He sets them down in front of me and says, “I had to kill a guy for these.”
“I hope you didn’t get blood on them,” I nearly growl as I grab one of the long, swirled golden sticks and instantly pop it in my mouth like a savage. I’m too impatient to even dip in the marinara sauce at this point. “Mmmm,” I groan, my eyes closing as I bite off another chunk and nearly orgasm over the taste. “You are my murderous hero.”
I stuff another buttery bite in my mouth, continuing to moan my appreciation. Once I’ve finished an entire breadstick, I finally open my eyes to find Miles staring at me. His jaw is slack, and his hands are frozen in place on the armrests of the chair. He hasn’t grabbed a beer out of the ice bucket, and he’s not eating. He hasn’t even opened a bottle of water. He’s just…staring.
“Jesus, now what?” I ask, slicking my tongue across my lower lip to catch the dribble of garlic butter on the run.
“You are a walking, fucking tease, you know that?” he states with a shake of his head. He grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and drinks half the bottle in one go.
“How so?” I ask with a laugh, my mouth still full of doughy goodness. “I just stuffed my face with a breadstick like some sort of prepubescent child on the run from fat camp.”
“Then sign me up for fat camp,” he replies and takes another swig.
I glance down at his hard body, scoffing because it doesn’t look like he has a single soft spot anywhere. With a wistful sigh, I reach for a beer, and he quickly pulls the bucket out of my reach.
He eyes me firmly, those sapphire blues turning to slits. “Drink this whole bottle of water, then you can have a beer.”
I tilt my head and hit him with my own withering stare. “I’m twenty-seven years old, Miles. I think I know when I can have a beer.”
“Well, I’m thirty, and on a day you didn’t faint in my arms, I would agree with you. But please, for my own sanity, will you drink some of this first?” He holds the sweating bottle of water out to me and softens his eyes in a way that makes me realize he’s probably used to getting what he wants from the ladies. Maybe even a bigger manwhore than Dean.
Exhaling heavily, I take the bottle and chug down half of the contents in several obnoxious glugs. I lower the bottle, and he shoots me a satisfied smirk that actually makes him look even more handsome. He grabs a brown bottle out of the ice bucket, twists the cap off, and offers it to me.
“Thank you,” I chirp and take a sip, enjoying the taste of alcohol after a long day of writing. Well, writing and fainting.
“Come on, let’s hear it,” he says, setting his beer down and propping his elbows on the table.
“Hear what?” I ask, batting my lashes innocently at him.
“What are you so busy doing every day at the Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center that you starve yourself into a fainting spell?”
I grab another breadstick and pop it into my mouth, chewing with a cocky smirk teasing my lips. “All I can say is that I was ‘in the zone.’”
He smirks back. Damn, I wish my smirk looked half as sexy as his does right now.
“You gotta give me more than that.” He gestures to the space between us. “Let’s call this a safe space. You can share openly, and nothing will be held against you.”
I exhale heavily because I knew there was no way I could break bread with this guy and not fess up. So I proceed to tell him my entire saga, all the way down to my favorite coffee, the pranks, and the side-eye looks.
He’s not really laughing so much as biting his lower lip to stop himself from reacting at all. I continue to rave about the vibe and the people and the coffee. I even go on and on about Betty for a good five minutes. I vomit up everything I’ve been preaching to Lynsey and Dean, as well as my fans on social media. How the Tire Depot is like an unpretentious coffee shop that’s inclusive of everyone. Well, everyone who owns a vehicle, I guess.
By the time I finish, I’m nearly out of breath.
Miles gives me a slow, disbelieving shake of the head. “And you’ve been doing this for over three weeks now?”
“Basically.” I shrug.
“And you’re writing a book? What’s the book about?”
I grimace at that question. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting work done.”
“Why won’t you tell me what you’re writing?” he asks, his head flinching back at my curt response.
“Because it weirds people out.”
“How so?”
“If I tell you that, then I’ll be answering your question, and I don’t want to answer your question.”
“I won’t judge!” he argues, grabbing his beer and taking a drink.
I roll my eyes. “You’ll judge.”
This makes him chuckle with disbelief. “I mean, it’s pretty much obvious now.” I purse my lips, and he finally gives up. “Okay, fine, we don’t have to talk about what you’re writing.” I sag with relief. “Although, I will tell you I’m a bit of a historical fan, so if you tell me you’re writing the next Game of Thrones, we’ll basically have to get married and live happily ever after.”
This makes me giggle so hard, I nearly spew out the beer in my mouth. We’re interrupted by the pizza’s arrival, and since I still haven’t had any protein for the day, we drop what we’re talking about and focus on the food. The slices are bigger than my face, and we both carefully fold a piece in half and tuck into it like starved animals.
Even after three breadsticks, I’m still hungry enough to finish a whole huge slice, which is nothing compared to Miles’s three slices. He just double-stacked the last two into a pizza sandwich. A pizza sandwich! I marvel at where the hell that all goes because his body looks shredded beneath that stretch cotton shirt.
Another beer later, I finally ask the question that’s been in the back of my mind. “So are you going to tell anyone?”
His brows lift. “Tell them there’s this hot redhead frequenting the waiting room and could we please get rid of her? Um, pass.”
I giggle again. Goddamnit, this guy is turning me into a damn girlie girl. “Do you think anyone else knows about me?”
He shakes his head. “No, I asked my buddy Sam, who works at the front counter, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Will he say anything?”
“Nah, we’re friends.”
This relaxes me. “So you’re a mechanic then?” I ask, realizing I’ve been doing nothing but talk about myself.
“Yep,” he replies, wiping his mouth and sitting back in his seat, his long legs spread wide, his big feet taking up all the space between our chairs. “I started in bodywork, paint and some design stuff, but I got tired of wearing the gear, so I went back to school for mechanics. It’s a good gig. Decent pay. Easy hours. No weekends.”
“I know,” I groan obnoxiously. “I hate that you guys close on the weekends.”
That makes him chuckle. “Don’t you ever take a break?”
I shake my head. “I’m a workaholic. It’s the book business. The faster you release, the more you stay in people’s minds. I was lucky to have my first book break out, and I don’t want to lose that momentum.”
He nods thoughtfully. “That’s why you work through lunch.”
I shrug. “That and sometimes I forget to eat.”
He huffs out a polite laugh and adds, “Well, I think it’s incredible that you write. I can’t even think of enough words for my weekly email to my parents.”
“Where do your parents live?”
“Utah. I was born and raised there. I came to Boulder for college. Well, tech school, I should say.”
“That’s a long way to go for tech school. Surely, they had places like that in Utah?” I pry.
He gets an uncomfortable look in his eyes. “I was following a girl.”
“Ooh, yikes. Did I just stumble into a sore subject? You’ll have to tell me when I push too far. I’m a writer, so I’m curious about relationships by nature. My instinct right now is to shoot rapid-fire questions at you about this woman and what happened between you two, but say the word and I won’t.”
“Word,” he says instantly, his face losing all humor.
I swallow slowly. “Got it. No ex-girlfriend talk.” This works well for me too because who wants to hear about the fact that I still technically live with my ex?
“I mean, I’m over her,” he offers, “but I don’t like to think about her.”
I nod knowingly. “I know the feeling.”