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.”
Our eyes lock for a tense moment, and it’s as if our bodies have some instinctual understanding that our minds haven’t caught up to yet. You can almost hear the sexual tension crackling like dry kindling in a fire.
Miles clears his throat and states, “Well, Red, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He gives a silly ‘Scout’s honor’ pose and adds, “If you’re all done, we should head back to Tire Depot for my bike.”
“That’s right!” I exclaim and quickly stand from my chair. “Yes, I’ll totally take you back.” My eyes wander off for a moment before I add, “You don’t happen to have a key to the Customer Comfort Center, do you?”
“Mercedes!” he chastises and stands up in front of me, grabbing my shoulders in his big, manly paws. “You need a damn break, girl. Working this hard can’t be good for your ‘vibe’ or whatever you called it.”
I stare down at his warm hands on me. They are rough and hard looking, but not greasy, as one might expect of a mechanic. And the way his mouth curved when he said vibe has managed to send an instant jolt of awareness through my entire body. I actually feel my pelvis tilting toward him like it’s developed a mind of its own.
“What do you do when you’re not working?” I husk, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. Did I seriously say that out loud? Jesus Christ, Kate. Get hold of yourself. This isn’t one of your books!
Miles seems amused by my mortification, but then a wall comes down over his features, something that I haven’t seen before. “I like to…ride my motorcycle. Hike. Read. Occasionally, I go to the lake.”
I purse my lips together and nod. “Cool, I’ll go shopping for a Harley this weekend.”
“You do that.” He smiles and throws his arm around my shoulders in a friendly, bro sort of way. “Come on, let’s get out of here before I start boring you with why you should get an Indian instead of a Harley.”
I giggle at that. “Oh, mechanic talk, sounds kinky.”