“Oh, Jonah, she’s beautiful.” I check out the wheel wells, notice the window rubbers all need to be replaced, and make a note to order new taillight covers.
I pop the hood and lean in to take a peek. The engine needs new motor mounts, all new belts, and a good cleaning. It could be replaced with something bigger, but this isn’t a muscle car. This car is for cruising. I need to take it apart piece by piece to see what can be salvaged and rebuilt. A moan from behind me cuts through my thoughts.
With a twist, I squint over my shoulder at Jonah standing a few feet from my back. My position, bent beneath the hood and reaching into the back, has my bottom out and up and right in Jonah’s line of sight. His eyes are firmly planted and my face ignites.
With a speed I didn’t know I was capable of, I straighten up and look to the floor, hoping to hide my embarrassment. Being in this place, my mind focused on the project, I almost forgot he was there. Almost.
“Sorry, I um . . .” I have no words. The heat from my cheeks crawls down my neck.
“Do you like rap?” He turns to nearby countertop.
“Huh?”
“Music.” Jonah plugs his iPod to a space-age-looking dock and hip-hop beats fill the room.
I nod to his back. I’m not a rap music fan, but, at this point, I’d agree to anything that takes the focus off of me.
“Come over here and I’ll show you where everything’s at.”
I exhale a breath. Thank goodness he didn’t make that more awkward than it was.
After a short guide to his available tools, we get to work. I get into a zone and concentrate on the build. He asks questions, eager to learn the process. We talk about our jobs and friends, falling into comfortable conversation.
A few hours into breaking down the engine, we take a break. Jonah grabs a bottled water for me from the mini fridge. Its diamond-plated chrome covering matches the cabinetry. Fanciest garage I’ve ever been in, no doubt.
I work to unscrew the cap from my water. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been working out every day, letting your friends kick your butt, and taking any fight you can get, all for a big ugly belt?” I attempt to summarize the UFL 101 lesson Jonah gave me.
His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They don’t kick my butt.”
Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the welded-shut water bottle.
He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let me.”
Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands it back.
“I loosened it for you.” I drink deeply, hoping the cool water will quell my pounding pulse.
“Of course, you did.”
“Okay, but really, the belt is ugly. What do you do with it once you get it? Do you, I don’t know, wear it out to dinner or around the house? Do you, like, model it for your billboard ads?” Judging by the faint pink coloring Jonah’s face at the mention of his ads, I bet he gets teased often.
“Maybe a black and white layout of you and your belt on a sandy beach for, say, a protein shake billboard?” Sucking both my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I watch in fascination a shy Jonah. He recovers quickly and narrows his eyes on me. I’d worry that I’d offended him if it weren’t for the humor lighting his face.
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny,” he drawls.
“What? You do model, don’t you?” I tease doing my best Derek Zoolander face.
Exhaling, he throws his hand in his hair and drops his chin. Bringing his head back up, his eyes lock with mine. “Yes. I have sponsors that I’ve modeled for. Happy?”
I’m still smiling.
“You think that’s funny, huh?”
“Well, yeah, I do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the modeling I think is funny. It’s the look on your face when I talk about you modeling that’s funny.”
Tilting his head, I see something working behind his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he dips his finger in black grease and swipes my cheek. “There. You think that’s funny?”
I stare silently, glaring in his direction. I snag the tin of grease, dip four fingers into it, and hold them up. “You’re going down, Slade”
I lunge at him and make a swipe on his neck. My instincts tell me to be careful, reminding me that this is a trained fighter and that I’m a lanky, twenty-year-old girl. But a comfort that defies explanation has me trusting him.
Dipping both sets of fingers into the grease, he gives me a look that says I better run or else. I turn to bolt just as I feel two strong hands wrap around my biceps from behind. With a girlish squeal, I’m pulled, my back forced to the firm heat of his chest. I swallow a moan that almost escapes my lips at the feeling of his hard body pressed to the length of mine. His strong hands grasp my arms, rubbing the oil with one long stroke from elbow to shoulder, and igniting the blood beneath my skin.
“You’re going to have to tap out. No way you’re going to win this one.” His words are spoken into my ear, making me shiver and practically sag in his arms.
“Oh yeah?” My question sounds weak in my own ears. Darn it.