Dirty Deeds (Mechanics of Love #3)(2)

“Neither.” She gestured toward the unlit sign in the window of the office. “We’re closed.” Maybe she would have stayed open if anyone but this guy had pulled into the parking lot.

He sighed and ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, tugging on the dark strands before dropping his arms to his sides. “Fuck,” he muttered, turning his glare back onto the car.

She stuck her hands in her pockets. “Look, I’ll make sure the guys coming in tomorrow look at it, but that’s all I can promise.”

After a silent thirty seconds, he nodded. “That’ll have to do then.”

She took a step forward. “I’m Alex, by the way.”

His gaze dipped down her body for one minute before locking eyes with her. “Spencer.”

That name. So British and posh and everything Alex wasn’t. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” She should just make him figure it out on his own since he was kind of a jerk, but she could always use some karma points. And it wasn’t like Tory had a taxi service.

“I’m at the Tory Inn.”

“I know where that is. I can give you a ride, if you want.”

He studied her again, and she wondered what he thought of her. She was dirty after a long day at work, but she always wore a full face of makeup and red lipstick. He had hated it, but she didn’t wear it for him.

“Okay, yes,” Spencer said with a nod, his tone brusque. “I’d like that. Thank you.” His last two words were tacked on, like an afterthought.

Don’t hurt yourself thanking me. “I’m going to close up the shop, so you can get your things and I’ll meet you at my truck.” She pointed to her old Ford in the corner of the lot. His eyes followed her finger, and then he gave a short nod.

“Give me ten,” she said.

It really only took her five minutes to close up the shop, but she needed some time to gain her bearings. She could feel his judgment of her and her workplace on her skin like ants. She wanted to get home and shower and forget about this uppity Brit. Why had she offered him a ride home? Stupid, stupid Alex.

Also, why did he have to be hot?

When she approached her truck, he was standing by the passenger door, head bent, a lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead as he tapped away at his phone. As her footsteps approached, he looked up. He held a fancy-looking bag, the strap crossed over his chest.

“That all you have?” she asked.

He nodded and his head swiveled as he looked up and down Main Street. He sighed, and for the first time since she’d met him, his severe face softened. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve had a shite day, and I was an arse. Can I buy you dinner or a drink to make up for it?”

Alex hesitated. No, no, just say no. But he was looking at her with a somewhat eager expression, and she was starving. A free meal. While looking at a hot guy. Hopefully he kept his mouth shut. “There’s a little place down the street, serves burgers and beer.”

“Lovely.”

As they got into the truck and she put on her seat belt, she said, “But you don’t have to pay—”

“Please, Alex.”

She tried not to think about how she liked the way he said her name, drawing out the first syllable and emphasizing the x. “Sure, okay,” she said as she backed out of the parking lot, glancing at him as she did.

He smiled then. A smile that transformed his surly face into . . . something gorgeous. Spectacular. Like he belonged in some period film with a cravat, sipping champagne. She tried not to think about how his smile made her feel, even as the warmth spread down to her toes. He was just a hot guy, and she’d been around hot dudes before. Hell, she worked with some. So why couldn’t she quit perving on this one? Especially because he’d already shown he could be an asshole. God, was that who she was? A woman who was doomed to always want to bone jerks?

Spencer’s name was probably something like Spencer Addington IV, and he probably had a distant relative of royalty. Surely, his family played polo or cricket or whatever they did over there in Britain.

Either way, despite the way his eyes lingered on her lips and the way his long tapered fingers rested on his thigh, he wasn’t her type.

Hell, she didn’t have a type anymore.

Being alone was lonely, but at least it was safe.

SPENCER HAD BEEN a right prick.

He knew it, and the peculiar woman sitting beside him driving this old truck knew it.

And he wished he could take it back. He knew he’d insulted her. And in a way, he’d wanted to at first. This town and this garage reminded him too much of where he came from, and that was definitely not what he wanted to really ever be reminded of.

He couldn’t wait to get out of here. Fucking car. As soon as it was fixed, he was gone, back to his flat in New York, where he’d barricade the door for a couple of days and binge on Shark Tank.

His Prick Act was polished and impenetrable, and he liked it that way. Everyone maintained a distance from him and respected him for how well he did his job and didn’t ask him questions or, God forbid, try to get to know him.

But Alex hadn’t backed down despite his English ire, and maybe that was why he’d caved. Apologized. Offered to buy her dinner. He wasn’t sure what to make of the woman driving this old truck he now sat in. She wore oversized jeans and big boots and a tight white tank top. Everything was a little worn, but did nothing to hide the enticingly curvy figure beneath all the clothes.

He’d nearly swallowed his tongue when he’d turned around in the parking lot. He’d expected a man with a potbelly and receding hairline—his father, basically. Instead, he’d seen the dark-haired sprite with red lips, bright blue eyes, and a tire iron.

The sight of her gripping the metal, her stance slightly challenging, had made him a little hard, which was disturbing.

He really should have just gone to the hotel and ordered a pizza or something. Socializing with a female American mechanic had never been on his bucket list, so he wasn’t sure what had made him want to spend more time with her. He didn’t want to think it was just so he could look at her for longer, because that was shallow. Maybe it was the flash of caution that had crept into her expression as he had turned to her with anger still in his eyes over his car.

Her little hand had regripped the tire iron, and it’d been something of beauty to watch her steel herself to address him.

But it was just a dinner, a way to pay her for the ride to the hotel, because he hadn’t seen any taxis around. So he’d eat and be polite and that would be the end of it.

Her truck was old, the engine a little loud. But it was clean. When she lowered the visor to shield her eyes from the sun, he spotted a picture tucked into a pocket there. A woman and a little girl. The woman looked a lot like Alex, so she was either her sister or Alex was a lesbian who preferred women who looked a lot like her.

Spencer really needed to get it together and quit making up shite about the woman beside him.

Good Christ.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her fingernails stained from the work she did every day on vehicles. Spencer had done everything he could—scratched, kicked, and clawed—to rise out of his life where those would have been his hands. Where that garage would have been his life.

They pulled into a nondescript brick building and as Spencer stepped out of the truck, he eyed the dozen motorcycles in the parking lot. This was . . . what did they call it . . . a biker bar? He couldn’t be sure, but he felt incredibly out of place in his suit and tie. Of course Alex would take him somewhere like this—her turf. She was striding toward the door now and looked over her shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow. “You coming, Posh?”

“Posh?”

She gestured to him with a limp hand. “All dressed up with that accent.”

He cocked his head. “So I’m automatically a stuck-up snob because I’m British?”

Without missing a beat, she said, “And because of the way you turned up your nose at my shop. Now come inside and let’s eat, then I’ll send you on your posh way, Spencer.” She said his name with a little derision and he wondered what she would say if she knew his whole name.

“Calm down, Sprite,” he said in response as he took off his jacket and tie and threw it into the seat of the truck. He slammed the door and walked toward her, the gravel of the lot crunching under his shoes. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as she stared at him.

“Sprite?” she asked.

Those blue eyes. Did she know how round and bright and utterly bewitching they were? “Yes, Sprite.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re . . . ” He held out his hands and gestured up and down her body. “Small. Petite.”

She stared at him.

“Erm, like a little truck-driving, car-fixing fairy, I would say.” He sounded half-mad.

She must have thought so too, because she hadn’t moved. She was a contradiction, this short little thing with her bright red lips, eyes dark with makeup, nearly black hair pulled up into a severe ponytail.

“You’re weird,” was all she said before licking her lips and continuing toward the door of the pub. He followed, thinking this night was what was weird.

IT’D BEEN A long time since he’d had some drinks and maybe it was his nerves or whatever, but after a half hour, he looked at the bottom of his empty pint and wondered how many he’d had. Because he was already slightly pissed and good Christ, when had he not been able to hold his liquor?