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This was not happening.
CHAPTER THREE
“Trouble?” He smiled, and up close I saw he had slightly crooked teeth, but somehow it only made him hotter. Like he’d been too masculine to suffer through something as trivial as braces for something as inconsequential as vanity. “Lift the bonnet for me, aye?”
Oh, God . . . He had an accent. I knew custom required a response, but I could only gape.
He smiled again. His snaggle-toothed accent gave the impression that a young Gerard Butler had stepped off a movie screen and stood before me, live and in 3-D.
“I said, pop the bonnet, love. ” He spoke slowly this time, as if I’d fallen too hard off the short bus that morning.
Must respond. Bonnet. WTF is a bonnet?
He just stood there waiting. I clamped my slack jaw shut. High schooler, maybe, but I would not be mistaken for a mouth-breather. I followed the line of his eyes. “Ohh, the hood. Yeah, got it. ”
Pop the hood. Check. I got out of the car just as he leaned over to peer at my engine.
As I mentioned before, I’m no dummy. I took the opportunity to assess a tight butt and a pair of muscular legs. I love a guy who wears just straight-up jeans. No fancy metrosexual nonsense, just an old, worn pair of Levi’s. I wondered whether they were button fly.
He straightened, and I managed to tear my eyes from his nether parts before he caught me staring. “I think it’s your carb,” he said, clapping the grease from his hands.
“The only carb I know is the bagel I had for breakfast. ” My face froze in place, shocked at the idiocy of my own joke. Moron! I am such a moron.
He just stared. Of course he did, since I’d just said the Dumbest Thing Ever. I used to wish I were average, but I took it all back. I wanted to be sparkling and witty and magnetic.
“Kidding,” I mumbled. “I know you meant carburetor. Internal combustion, et cetera. ”
He strolled around the car, eyeing it with the indifference one might give a bit of rubbish in a bin. “Shall I arrange a tow?”
Not unless there’s a nearby bank I can rob. “No, thank you,” I told him instead.
He came full circle to lean against the side. He crossed his arms, and I had to pull my gaze from the thickness of his biceps and from the quote tattooed there. “Is there someone I can ring for you?”
“No. ” I cleared my throat, inexplicably sad that our little encounter was quickly drawing to a close. Paradis perdu. I had the feeling he’d forever be my lost paradise. “I’ll make it on my own. ”
“Oh, dear. ” He shook his head, and I thought my heart might pound out of my chest. A man of such gigantic hotness saying “Oh, dear” was just too unbearably sexy. “A fine woman like you, all alone . . . ”
Did he just call me a woman? I bit my lip, trying not to blush like a child. I tried to act flip, but my laugh in response sounded more like a weak puff of air.
What could he mean, like you? If I had a type, I’d be qualified as Surly Valedictorian. Definitely never have I ever been placed in a category even close to Fine Woman.
His eyes roved up and down my body, and I gave a quick tug on my shirt, even though I knew all my bits—modest though they were—languished safely in their appropriate places.
“A nasty predator could come and snatch you up. ” He gave me a wicked smile, his accent making what was probably just a playful comment sound dangerous. And then he winked.
Jeez, I thought my heart would explode on the spot. The last time a guy winked at me was years ago, and that’d been a creepy mall Santa.
“I’ll be fine,” I managed. “I’ll just go back into the registrar’s office and . . . ” And what?
He eyed me speculatively. “Aren’t you a bit young for university ? What of your parents?”
Okay, that stung. So much for me looking all fine and womanly. I fought the urge to tug on the brim of my hat.
Really, did he have to ask about my parents? I normally liked to give a conversation ten minutes before hashing out the Painful Life Story. He’s lucky something—I swear—softened around his eyes, because that’s the only reason I answered. “Early graduation. I moved out. ”
“You can’t be much older than sixteen,” he mused. “You must be very bright. ”
I bristled. People see a petite blonde and assume you’re some impressionable schoolgirl. “Eighteen on my next birthday. ”
