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He holds his hand out and wiggles his fingers. “I’ll do it.”
“But, I can…”
“Nah,” his quick response cuts me off before I can finish my sentence. “I wouldn’t want you to mess up your nails.”
Glancing down at my colorless nails with dirt mixed with grease underneath them. I laugh to myself when I look at his furrowed brows staring down at the car. I hand the keys over to him and he pops open the hood of the car. Victor pushes up the sleeves of his pressed button-up shirt and holy forearm candy. He leans over the engine and is just staring at it. This man does not know what he is looking at. Frustration overtakes me. My patience with entitled and assuming jerks runs thin with every poor pitiful girl assumption about me. For heaven’s sake, how could I know anything about a car?
“Well, we can’t have you ruin that crisp white shirt. God forbid you get dirty.” I laugh. “We less fortunate people can’t have high-class assholes ruining a good shirt.” I say smugly.
I walk over and pick the keys from his pocket.
“Hey!” He gasps.
I try to start the car and the engine sounds like it is trying to turn over. Loose cables, a bad battery, or a bad alternator. I’ll start with the spark plugs and go from there. Everything else, Dave will have to bring the car into the shop. Blissfully walking away to my truck, where I have a small tool chest and the perfect jawline, honey-haired douche walks next to me.
“What are you doing?” he questions.
I roll my head from side to side. “Fixing the car,” I candidly respond.
“I told you I had it,” he snips, annoyed.
I hold my arm up, hitting his chest, before angling my body toward him. “Back off.”
He’s pushing it with me. I drop my tailgate and climb up into the back. Rooting around my rusted tool chest, I find a couple of spark plugs I keep in hand specifically for Mr. Withers. Even though our garage is across the island, he’s thrown business our way for many years. Leland and Lawson have come to my and Massey’s rescue many times. It’s also a way to thank Massey and her dad for not throwing in our faces that we are poor or that we don’t fit in with their crowd.
Putting the car back together, I climb back in, and it starts right up.
“I was getting there. You just got lucky.” Victor seethes. I’ve hurt his man card.
“Lucky?” I choke on my air.
“Yeah.” His hand motions over the engine. “With this standard motor crap.”
“You don’t think I know what I’m doing?” I challenge him. My arms cross over my chest, drawing his eye for a brief second. I don’t have mountains, but I’d like to think my mediocre breasts are something special.
“Why would you? You’re a girl,” He cranes his neck.
“And you are an ass,” I say back quickly.
“I…”
Before he can utter another word, I hold my finger up toward him, gesturing to him to be quiet as I take my phone out and call Mr. Withers’ assistant.
“Hey, it’s Collins. Will you let Mr. Withers know I fixed the car?” I give his assistant an update. “No, no bill.” I smile into the phone, thanking his assistant before hanging up the phone.
I end the conversation and drop my hand; Victor attempts to speak again. “There is…”
I turn, giving him a death stare before raising my hand once again and flipping him off.
“What the hell, Collins?” his voice cracks.
“Sad, you don’t think more of me. Especially when you do not know who I am.” I turn and walk away with nothing more to say.
“No way you know that much about cars,” he tries to lay a dig but fails miserably.
“Well, thankfully you won’t lose sleep over what I can and can’t do.” I stand firm and offer a salute before walking away, muttering under my breath. “Selfish prick.”
I climb in my truck and putter away. I still need to head to the junkyard to spend the next several hours pulling parts and pieces for my Chevelle. My beautiful girl is a beast of a woman with expensive taste in parts.
