Chapter Two
Claire
Extra ticket now in hand, I am heading south out of Minneapolis on 35W and racking my brain for someone it wouldn’t be too weird to call last minute. My thoughts are interrupted by a red light on my dashboard and the strange sensation of rapid deceleration, even though my foot is pressing down on the gas.
“Oh, come...on! Why? Why?” I punch it again—still get no response—then resignedly coast to the shoulder where I come to a very anticlimactic stop.
I put the car in park and lean forward to rest my forehead on the wheel. I really don’t have time for this.
On a sharp inhale, I grab my phone and call for a tow, then pray there’s nothing majorly wrong with the engine. Fifteen minutes later, a truck with yellow swirling lights is pulling in front of me. It parks, then slowly lowers some kind of platform a couple feet ahead of my bumper.
I watch as a guy gets out of the cab and approaches my immobile hunk of expensive European metal. He’s tall; solid—more of a linebacker than a running back—but his movements are smooth and fluid. I can tell how he is in bed just by the way he walks, which goes to show how often my imagination heads in that kind of direction. I’m like a professional fantasizer, if only I could get paid for that kind of work.
He bends down to peer in my window, and I lower it a few inches. You can’t be too careful, even for Mr. Sexy. Maybe especially for Mr. Sexy.
“Michael DaBruzzi,” he says through the gap. “DaBruzzi Towing & Repairs on Thirty-Fifth Street.” He’s wearing one of those blue striped mechanic’s shirts. There’s an oval patch over his chest with the name Michael embroidered in red stitching.
His credentials match what the dispatcher gave me, so I roll my window down the rest of the way. That’s when I really look at his face. His dark hair falls in a forelock over his right eye; the one eye I can see is green. Italian probably, with a name like DaBruzzi, but those eyes say there’s some Irish in there, too.
He has a killer mustache that grows thick over his lip then runs down along the sides of his mouth, nearly to his chin. The rest of his handsome face looks like it has two days’ growth, but I can’t tell if he’s growing out a full beard or if he just hasn’t got around to shaving.
“Something is wrong with my car,” I tell him.
His lips pull back into a wide grin that shows a lot of white teeth. “Didn’t think you called to chat. Is someone on their way to pick you up?”
“Uh. No.” I didn’t even think to do that.
“Grab your stuff. Get in my truck. I’ll hitch up your car and take you to the garage. You can figure something out from there.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to fix it quickly?” I grab my purse and briefcase then open my door.
He steps out of the way as it swings open. I swivel my legs to the side, keeping my knees together.
He holds out his hand to help me to my feet. I don’t need the help, but I accept his hand anyway. It’s warm and calloused. Such a strange contrast to how I remember Steven’s. Something about the roughness sends a shot of adrenaline-spiked blood right through my core, and he briefly tightens his grip before letting go.
“Won’t know what’s wrong with your engine until I get under the hood.”
I get a little mesmerized by his thick, dark mustache as he talks.
“German parts,” he says. “Might have to order something.”
His lips are broad, smooth. I wonder if they’d be hard or soft to the touch. A part of me wishes that talk about my “engine” and “getting under my hood” was sexy innuendo and not just garage talk.
“Did you forget something?” he asks, responding to my hesitation.
I glance back toward my car as if I might have left my sanity inside. “No. I’m ready.”
When we walk toward his truck, he takes the side closest to the traffic that’s whizzing by. Then we cut between our two vehicles and move to his passenger-side door.
The running board is pretty high, and when I try to lift my foot, I realize my skirt is too tight for this kind of gymnastics. I think I hear him snort, but before I can react, he’s wrapped those strong, rough hands around my hips and lifted me straight up into the cab as if I weighed nothing more than a child.
I get adjusted in my seat, trying to ignore my embarrassment or the fact that one touch from Mr. Sexy has sent a pulsing ache straight to my clit. Something flashes in his eyes when I cross my legs to suppress the rush of heat.
“Do you have any loaner cars?” I ask.
“Yes.” He braces one hand against the frame of the passenger door.
I’m perched so high I’m at eye-level with him. There’s an intensity in his eyes now that makes my pounding ache intensify. I swear he knows it. Christ, he probably smells it because I just got a rush of creamy warmth down below.
It takes me a second to remember what I asked him. “Um... Can I borrow one of the loaners if you can’t fix my car quickly? I have an event to get to tonight, and I’m a little short on time.”
“No,” he says. Just like that. No.
“No I can’t take one of the loaners?”
“Right.” The corners of his mouth twitch and he shifts his body, moving an inch closer.
“Why not?” Our conversation is banal, but my insides are rioting. My tone gives me away because I can hear my own panic rising.
“Because they’re all loaned out already. If we have to order a part, I’ll drive you home. You could Uber to your thing tonight.”
I swallow hard and lick my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth but otherwise he doesn’t move. Am I the only one feeling the tension between us? He’s talking to me as if I’m just one more stranded motorist in his already busy day. Am I really so sex-starved that it’s come to panting over my tow truck driver on the side of the highway?
I get a grip on my raging libido and finally get around to responding to his suggestion. “I’m not taking an Uber to the Wellington. I’ll be wearing a full-length gown.”
Granted, driving myself—even in a Mercedes—is hardly the same as showing up in a limo, but it’s far better than climbing out of the backseat of some kid’s Corolla.
He chuckles, and the sound is warm and rich. It makes we want to crawl inside his skin so I can hear what it sounds like from that side of things. The thought makes my heart skip. God, I’m so depraved. I really need to get laid. It’s been too long.
“You’re wearing a gown?” he asks, his eyebrows rising.
“Of course.” What does he think I’d wear to the Wellington?
“What are you? Fucking Cinderella?”
I stare at him for a long second then shake my head. He doesn’t see me as sexy. He sees me as some little kid’s Disney character. Fine. Whatever. We’ve got to get going. I need my car fixed. I need to get a plan together. “Can we go? I don’t have a lot of time.”
He chuckles again. “That sounds like something else Cinderella would say.”
I make an exasperated sound in the back of my throat. “My car?”
“On it, Princess.”
I exhale, releasing the growing tension in my chest, while Mr. Sexy closes my door then moves to the back of his truck.
There’s a loud clanking sound, and the truck bounces on its shocks. The rocking motion makes my hips shift and my sex rub against the seat. Even that subtle bit of friction pulls a groan from my lips.
Keeping my eye on Mr. Sexy in my side mirror, I take the moment of privacy to hitch my skirt up a bit and circle my fingers over the ache, pressing in. God. So good.
I won’t have time to get myself all the way there, but it’s a start. As I watch Mr. Sexy’s body bend and flex, I work the bundle of nerves, stroking through my wetness, then back to my clit. With him in my sights, it doesn’t take long.
Everything draws tighter, higher, tenser. I close my eyes when I feel the rush of moisture. I’m so close...so close...a little bit farther... Oh, god...
I peek at the mirror again to check on Mr. Sexy and discover that he’s vanished from sight. Shit! Fuck! What the hell am I doing?
I quickly stop all activities. Have I lost my ever-loving mind? I don’t have time for self-indulgence, let alone public humiliation.
My poor neglected pussy vehemently disagrees and plans a one-woman revolt if I ever (Ever!) leave her hanging like that again.
I promise her a date tomorrow morning with her favorite vibrator, give the hem of my skirt a little tug, then grab my phone from my bag and make another call.