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I giggle, because the word jack combined with the fact that I was just thinking about his…
I clear my throat. Anyway.
I do as he says, awkwardly straddling the tire between my legs and rolling it forward until I reach the totally deflated passenger tire.
I look over. “Now what?”
He drops a nasty, hundred-year-old bag thing on the ground. “There should be a flathead screwdriver in there. Use it to pry off the hubcap.”
I got this.
I couple minutes later, I look up victoriously, hubcap by my feet.
He remains unimpressed.
“Wrench,” he snaps.
Wrench. I can do wrench. I helped my dad with a handful of odd jobs back in the day. I dig around until I come up with the wrench and hold it up for praise. He gives me only the slightest of nods.
“Now use it to remove the lug nuts, but don’t remove them all the way.”
I giggle again. I know. I know. But jack and nuts? Come on.
I listen as he points out the lug nuts, then use the wrench to loosen them, trying to ignore the fact that it’s like a million degrees and the temperature only seems to be heating his cologne to intoxicating levels.
“I hate you,” I mutter, as a trickle of sweat runs between my boobs.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
“When? After the apocalypse when the Triple A turns into an iceberg, or something?”
“I think the icebergs are melting.”
“I’m melting,” I snap, throwing my weight against the wrench to loosen the last of the lug nuts, remembering his instruction to not remove them all the way yet. “I don’t suppose you want to help?”
“Nah. I’m hot.”
I flip him the bird, and he takes a little bit of mercy, and hunches down to squat beside me, pulling a weird-looking thing out of the bag. “This is a jack. Don’t make it juvenile.”
I don’t respond. Too hot.
I watch and listen as he shows me how to position it, then cranks it to lift the car a few inches.
“Now you can take the lug nuts off all the way,” he says.
“Oh wow. Can I?”
Still, I admit there’s a weird sense of satisfaction in all of this, and I do as he instructs, noticing the way he stands back, keeping an eye on the occasional car that whizzes by. I mean, I don’t know what he’s going to do if one careens our way, but it’s nice that he cares. Sort of.
Ten minutes later, the old wheel is off, spare is on, lug nuts put back in their place.
Other than doing a cursory tightening of the lug nuts using his man muscles, or whatever, he lets me do the whole thing myself, and when I finally stand back up, I’m sweaty and dirty beyond belief, and no small amount of proud.
Even his impassive expression can’t keep me down, and I grin up at him.
To my surprise—and okay, pleasure—he smiles back.
Not a grin, but a smile. It’s slight, but it’s also a little bit proud, and my heart catches in my throat as I realize how much I want to make him proud. At how much I want him to want me, not just as a piece of ass, but as someone important. Someone worthy of him.
