“CAN YOU GRAB ME a wrench? Inch and a half.”
“Sure.” Nearly skipping to the back wall that’s lined in front by giant toolboxes, I’m relieved I actually know what a wrench is. The last two things he’s asked me for have sounded like he made them up. My quick online searches have provided me with proof they were real, as well as an image to reference as I scan the thousands of implements in Crank and retrieve the one he’s looking for.
Grabbing the wrench, confirming the dimension printed into the steel, I hand it under the tractor. His fingers rub against mine as he takes it, sending a pulse zipping through my veins.
“Thanks,” he says. Just like the last two times, I can hear he’s impressed that I got it. Just like the last two times, I feel my grin grow wider. “How do you know about tools, anyway?”
“Oh,” I say, darting around for some answer that’s not Google. “We have a farm. I mean, not lots of tools or farm animals anymore,” or ever, “but I have lots of brothers,” who know nothing about cars.
I try to imagine one of my brothers in their polo shirts working on a car in front of what we affectionately call the Farm. It’s nothing more than an old farmhouse that’s been in our family for ages and is the farthest thing from a place to do farm activities. It’s been the headquarters for my family’s political activities, held family Christmases, and was even photographed for a piece about Southern homes in a fancy magazine last year. But actual real-life farming? Nope.
“How many brothers do you have?” he asks.
“Four. They’re all older than me and my twin sister.”
“You have a twin?”
“Yeah. And, no, I can’t read her mind or feel it when she stubs her toe.”
His chuckle floats from under the tractor and wraps itself around me, making me light-headed. “Weird answer.”
“Everyone thinks that,” I say, taking the last sip of my drink. “Maybe some twins have telepathic abilities, I don’t know. But we don’t.”
“Hey, can you hand me a tractor pin?”
“Sure.”
Whipping my phone out as I head back to the toolboxes, I punch in tractor pin. An image pops up of a small stick with a key looking thing attached to it. Going from one box to the next, I look for anything similar.
My blood pressure shoots up as I near the final one. There’s nothing that looks remotely like what popped up online. I could tell him I can’t find it, but I’m three-for-three. Maybe I want to impress him in his realm.
“Find it?” he calls out. “I think Peck stuck them up against the side of the box on the right. Top drawer. Probably hard to see.”
Sighing in relief, I jump to the right box and retrieve the pin. “Got it. This is the last one, just so you know.”
“Yeah, we don’t use those much.” His hand is sticking out from under the equipment awaiting the pin. I place it gently in his palm, letting my fingertips touch him as I let it go. He snaps his hand closed, catching my fingers for a brief, sudden hold.
Neither of us pulls away for a long second, the feel of his touch, however small, is like the spark of a match on a dark night. It’s warm and bright and with it comes a flash of hope that may or may not pan out.
As I draw my hand back, white noise roaring past my ears, I fall back into my chair.
Fiddling with a straw, I watch him scramble around under the tractor. Before long, he’s adjusted his position and I can’t see him anymore. A part of me wants to walk around the equipment so I can get a glimpse of him again without him knowing, but I stay put just in case he’s paying attention. I don’t want to look thirsty.
“I heard a lot about you in Crave tonight,” I tell him. “There are some interesting stories floating around about you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. You were a football star.”
“Hardly,” he snorts.
“That’s what they say,” I sing-song. “You also had lots of girlfriends.”
A tool hits the concrete. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, come on,” I laugh. “That’s the one I believe. How would you not have a ton of girlfriends?”
“Who was telling you all this shit?” he asks, clearly annoyed.
“Machlan. Peck. A guy named Cross at the bar. They also said you once burned something in Merom’s football field before the big homecoming game.”
“That wasn’t me,” he laughs. “That was Machlan and Cross’s dumb asses.”
“Who is Cross?”
“Machlan’s friend. They’ve raised absolute hell together since they were kids. Cross owns the gym on the other side of town.”
The sound of his laugh, something I don’t get to hear often enough, makes me smile.
“Do you have any questions for me?” I ask.
“I have no interest in hearing about your dating life.”
“Good because I don’t have one,” I grumble. “My brothers made it terribly hard growing up. Dating is something that never came easy to me.”
“How would it not?” he scoffs. “Look at you. You could get any man you wanted.”
I don’t say anything, point out that the man I want is under a tractor and refusing to take the bait.
The sounds get louder from him banging on the tractor, so I sit in the chair and let my mind wander. I wish I could ask him all the questions I have, get to know him better, but he’s so locked up and I don’t know why. Even more, I don’t know why I’m so awkward with him. So unsure. So . . . not me.
“You still here?” he calls out.
“Yup.”
“Can you grab me the hayfork?”
“Sure.”
Hopping to my feet, I put the word in the search bar of my phone. A list of sites about real estate pop up. Shit! I add the word tool after it and stop in my tracks. The image it loads is of a shovel with prongs looking thing, something I can’t imagine him using under there.
“Find it?” he asks.
“I’m looking!”
“What the fuck?” I mutter, looking at the wall, scanning helplessly. The hayfork looks more like a gardening looking thing, not something for a tractor. Why would he even have one?
“Can’t find it?”
I jump, Walker’s voice just inches behind me. His hair is a disaster, flecks of dirt all over his face. He’s filthy, smells of sweat and oil, and is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
My mouth waters as I try to look away, my face certainly flushing from the knowledge of how wet my panties are right now.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim. “How did you get behind me so fast?”
“Find the hayfork?” His lips twist, clearly entertained, as he crosses his arms in front of him.
“Um, no. Not yet.”
He looks at me, then my phone, and back to me again. “Let me see your phone.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. His palm is streaked with grease, beet red in some spots from grinding against the machine. “Let me see it.”
“Why?” I ask, my breathing getting shallow.
“You were looking up those tools, weren’t you?”
“What? I . . . Why would you think that?”
“You were, weren’t you?”
His tone is teasing, but there’s something else in his eye that tells me it’s more than a joke to him. It’s almost as if he’s angry or bothered. Either way, it makes me self-conscious.
While I’m trying to figure him out, in one abrupt move, he snatches my cell out of my hand.
“Hey!” I say, leaping for it but missing. “Give me that back!”
“Were you or were you not looking up those tools?”
His eyes narrow and I narrow mine right back. If he thinks he’s about to make me feel bad for trying to help him, he has another think coming.
“What’s it to you?” I ask, mimicking his stance. “Why do you care how I found them?”
“Just admit it.”
“Fine,” I all but growl. “I didn’t know what a pin was or lubricating oil or a socket. But I figured it out to help you, you asshole.”
He flinches, not expecting my tirade. Glancing at my phone, he quickly offers it back. I snatch it out of his palm without touching him.
“I don’t understand you,” I tell him, turning away. “You’re an impossibly frustrating man.”
Heading across the garage to where I set my things, I gather the garbage from dinner and toss it in the trash can. I feel his gaze on my back, the crackle of the energy between us as confused as I am, but refuse to turn around.
Instead, my phone goes into my purse, along with the paper and pen I was doodling on earlier. When I do finally turn around, I’m surprised to see him smiling. My head spins, one way with irritation, another with lust, another with confusion as to what he’s even smiling about.
“Thank you for helping out tonight,” he says. His eyes swirl with a softness to them that pulls at my heartstrings.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re so hard, like nothing bothers you. So black and white. And then I see in your eyes that you might not be that way at all.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he dismisses me. Even as he says this, I know even more assuredly I’m right and that just eggs me on.
“Oh, I think I do.”
His jaw sets. “You think you have everything figured out, don’t you?”
“No, quite the opposite. I don’t think I have the first thing figured out about you.”
The silence is heavy, like a wet blanket, almost strangling us with its weight. We have a standoff, the wits of two hard-headed people going to battle and neither wanting to give in.
Grumbling under his breath, he stands straight. I’m not sure if he’s going to walk out the door or climb back under the tractor, but he surprises me. He walks towards me.
My breath catches in my throat, the bite of the metal table behind me scratching into my back as I lean away, needing distance between myself and this man stalking my way.
With each drop of his boots, I struggle harder to seem unfazed by his posture. Hooded eyes. Squared, flexed body. With each second he gets closer, I breathe faster. Gulp quicker. Feel the spot between my legs get wetter.
“Why do you keep coming around?” he asks when he’s standing right in front of me. The top of my head is just beneath his chin, his chest at eye-level. It’s rising and falling as quickly as mine as he takes over every inch of my personal space. With every inflation, a whiff of his cologne shuffles to my nose and my senses continue to be obliterated, completely consumed in every way by him.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It surely isn’t because of your award-winning personality.”
I think he’s going to laugh, but he doesn’t. Just like every time I think he’s going to resemble a normal person, he stops himself. “Then why?”
“You want me to stop? Is that what this is about? Because I was just trying to help you tonight, Walker.”
When he doesn’t answer, doesn’t flinch, I throw out an exasperated sigh.
“You win. Whatever game you’re playing with me, you win. I quit,” I say, reaching for my purse. “Figure out what I still owe you and send me a text. I’ll get you the difference on Monday.”
Just before I swipe up my things, his hand lays on my arm. I just stare at it wrapped around my forearm, his hand almost twice the size of one of mine. It’s cut and bruised and in desperate need of a little tender loving care, but I ignore all that and pull my eyes to his.
Big. Mistake.
I can almost see the guard being pulled down, the shield he erects being cranked back. All the confusing emotions that are usually present are still there, only en masse.
I can’t think. Can’t respond. Just remind myself not to reach out and pull him into me and give him the hug I think he needs, maybe even wants on some level.
“You think I’m fucking with you?” he whispers.
“Aren’t you?”
“Not a chance, Slugger. As a matter of fact, I’m trying my damnedest to not fuck with you at all.”
“Noted,” I say, a little snottier than I intend.
Sucking up my pride, I try to shake him off. He just squeezes my forearm firmly until its clear I’m not going to move. Then he eases up.
“I don’t mean it like that.” He moves himself so we’re face-to-face.
“I think you do. I’m beginning to think a whole lot of what I see sometimes is more hope than reality.”
“What do you think you see?” he asks, taking another step so I’m almost standing between his legs.
“Stop this,” I whisper, my voice as shaky as I feel.
“Why?”
“It’s confusing. I can’t read you.”
He catches my chin with his hand, lifting it so I’m looking at him. His Adam’s apple bobs as he forces a swallow, his delicious lips parting with a small sigh. “Can you read this?”
“Wha—”
His lips capture the rest of the words from mine as his mouth covers my own.