Page 8 of Fall Love

“What are you looking for?” I snap, as he glances over the countertop and then opens a cabinet door.

“A water bottle? A container? A trough?”

“A trough?” I snort before narrowing my eyes. “Are you comparing me to a farm animal?”

“No, but you’re making me nervous.” He spins in another circle and notices the door marked BATHROOM. He rushes forward like he’ll bring me water cupped in his hand, if need be.

It’s kind of sweet, actually.

“I left my water bottle on my workbench.” I nod toward the garage, where I’d been working on the Toyota, which I need to get back to.

Break time over, Little Wrench. Mommy has work to do.

I smooth a hand over my belly, still amazed at how much my body can stretch. My skin feels tight. My fingers are swollen as well. I flex and fist my hands as Tate retrieves my water bottle and fills it from the water cooler just inside the waiting room. We’ve made a lot of cuts around here, but that giant jug is one I have not let go of yet.

With the metal water container full of fresh, cool liquid, I drink heavily. Gulping like I belong in a barn. Then I hiccup.

“Oh my.” Another hiccup jolts through me, giving me a pinch of heartburn. Another fun treat while pregnant. Insert sarcasm.

As I hiccup a third time, the business phone rings while Tate’s pocket buzzes. He stares at me as I rub a hand over my belly once more and reach for the phone. Cell service is spotty around here, so we kept the old cordless phone.

“Rusty’s Wre— Hey!” I snap, hiccupping at the same time, resulting in a weird barking sound.

Tate has pressed down the hang-up-thingy on the landline while simultaneously clicking off his phone.

“You’re closed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Exactly. You’re exempt from work the rest of the day.”

“You,” I huff, jabbing a sausage-looking finger in his direction. “Are not my boss.” Not yet. “And I have an oil change to complete.” I point toward the Toyota, visible through the window between the waiting room and garage.

“Need to keep the lights on a little longer,” I halfheartedly joke, knowing the end is near.

A trifecta of situations have converged: my pregnancy due date, the time limit Lumi gave me, and the need to sell.

Only a miracle could keep Rusty’s Wrecks alive.

“I’ll do it,” Tate says, shrugging off his suit coat and draping it over the back of the plastic chair still between us. Next, he loosens his tie, tugging it free from his collar like a magician waving a wand, casting a spell on me.

“Uhm.” I swallow thickly as he pops the first two buttons of his dress shirt before reaching for one cuff, unhooking a cuff link. An honest-to-the-autumn-goddess cuff link.

“Uh.” I clear my throat, appreciating this striptease a little more than I should. My cheeks heat. A lower part of me reacts when it has no business reacting.

“Just because you once dressed like a racecar driver, Driver, does not make you a mechanic.”

I squeak when he yanks his dress shirt free from his pants. The crisp material rustles like rolling on fresh bedsheets.

Do not think about him and a bed, Neve Snowe.

“I think I can handle an oil change.” He reaches for the back of his collar.

Don’t do it. My head slowly shakes side to side, a warning he’s not heeding.

He tugs the shirt up over his head.

Oh no you didn’t. A shiver ripples through me.