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Pucci isn’t cheap, for goodness’ sake, and even though I bought this secondhand, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let grease soak into the silk fabric.
Next, I move to the rolling toolbox in the corner and start riffling through the drawers as fast as I can. I know, at this point, I’ve been gone for quite a while, and I’m not entirely sure how he’ll react to that.
Anger. Worry. Humor. He seems to have all three in varying degrees of intensity at any given time, and honestly, I’m not used to the kind of men that wear their emotions so plainly on their sleeve, even when they’re conveniently shirtless like Mr. Rhett Jameson.
Most of the men I’ve met, dated, been in a short-term relationship with, like trying to be mysterious. They belittle when they’re mad, shift blame for the sole purpose of their convenience, and all in all, try to make it seem like I’m the one who can’t keep a steady read on the situation.
But Rhett reacts completely different than I’ve grown accustomed to with the opposite sex. He seems like the kind of guy that tells you like it is, for better or worse, and never tries to sugarcoat something just for the sake of appearance.
It’s shocking when it’s not what you’re used to, but I have to admit, a small part of me seems to find it exhilarating too.
I find a screwdriver with a flat head, though I really have no clue if it’s even close to the right size, and that only leaves the socket wrench with two heads. Whatever it is that means.
I sigh with frustration and continue digging through the drawers as quickly as I can. The problem is, now that I’ve gathered all the easy items and moved on to this one, I literally have no clue what I’m looking for.
I do not know what a socket wrench is. But I have a feeling it’s important.
“Dammit,” I blow out in a puff of frustration. I’m going to have to go back out there and, at the very least, ask him what it looks like.
It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, but fuck, I have no choice.
I carefully gather the things I’ve managed in my hands and turn to head for the door, only to jerk to a stop with a squeal. Standing in the doorway to the garage, leaning against the jamb, is Rhett Jameson with an undeniably sexy but arrogant smile on his face.
I take a deep breath to gather the shake in my throat so it won’t translate to my voice and walk toward him confidently.
“I’ve got the starter fluid, the rag, and the screwdriver. I was looking for the socket wrench.”
Rhett starts to move toward me, and I hold out a hand to indicate he should stop. “Just tell me what drawer it’s in, and I’ll get it.”
He smirks. “The one you were just in, darlin’.”
Ah, fuck. Of course it is.
“Right. I’ll just grab it, then.”
I go back to the drawer and grab the only kind of tool in there, looking through the strips of what must be the “heads” that are magnetically attached to the sides. Luckily, they’re labeled, so it doesn’t take me too long to find the sizes he needs.
When I walk back over and hold it out for him to take, he laughs. “I’ll admit, you did better than I thought you would.”
I lift my chin higher, the corners of my mouth curving up slightly.
I’m ready to bask in my victory, but he gives me no time. A swift feeling of disappointment takes up residence in my belly when he limps around me back over to the other side of the garage and replaces half of what I’ve gotten with slightly different versions.
“Don’t take it too hard,” he says as he passes me on his way out of the garage. “You were close.”
Yeah, I think, but not close enough.
Instead of being impressed and asking me about the kind of help I can offer him for his knee that he appears persistent in hobbling around on without crutches, he’s on his way back to the Jeep to send me on my way.
Well, Tex definitely told you one truth about his son…
Yeah. Rhett Jameson is a stubborn jackass.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the grumpy cowboy getting smaller by the second as I drive away from his house.
The Jeep’s up and running thanks to Rhett’s quick check and cleaning of the spark plugs and I don’t even know what else he fiddled with under the hood, and I’m officially exhausted.
My emotions feel like they’ve been put in a salad spinner and flung to all holy hell.
Excitement, panic, frustration, arousal—I’ve felt a little bit of all of it in the last twenty-four hours, and while, this morning, I thought I knew what the next two months of my life were going to look like, now I’m not too sure.
