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I giggled to myself as I got in my car; I certainly hadn’t been reaching for the mace when Trace pulled up behind me.
Shaking my head, I drove to Pete’s Garage, and parked beside Trace’s car.
I walked around to the front of the building. The large garage door was open, exactly like when I’d been here to get my car fixed.
Music was playing loudly, the lyrics saying something about blowing the roof off the place.
I stepped inside, looking around, hoping that Trace didn’t scare me like last time.
I walked around a car and saw him.
He was completely oblivious to me, and I put my hand over my mouth, to stifle my giggle. He was dancing like…well…there were no words to describe Trace’s dancing style. It was interesting to say the least. In fact, I wasn’t sure if it could be considered dancing.
He held a metal car part in his hands while shaking his whole body.
This was not dancing; it was more like a seizure.
I kept my mouth covered so that I could watch him longer.
It would be cute if it wasn’t so funny.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he liked to dance, but he was right when he said he sucked. The man had no rhythm whatsoever.
He turned and spotted me.
And holy hell, I had been too taken by the dancing to notice he was shirtless.
Shirtless and coated in a sheen of sweat.
I had never seen a man’s chest like Trace’s. It was lean and tan, but muscular, just like his arms. A light dusting of dark hair started at the bottom of his naval, and disappeared under the edge of his boxers, that I spied above the edge of his jeans.
I covered my eyes and turned around like I had caught him naked.
I was the epitome of smooth.
Not.
His chuckle rumbled through my body and I let my hand drop. Slowly, I turned back around to face him.
He’d turned the music down, and leaned against the car he was working on, grinning cheekily at me.
“You’re early,” he pushed his hair out of his eyes. I was discovering it was a nervous habit for him.
“And you’re naked,” the words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.
His smile grew. “I’m not quite naked yet, but if you’d like to help me get there, that’s fine by me.”
Oh. My. God.
“I’m kidding, Olivia,” he added when I stood there with a stunned look on my face. “You’re definitely a preacher’s daughter,” he commented. “But you’re going to have to get used to my sexual innuendos if you’re going to spend time with me. I can’t help myself.”
Lord, help me. Please.
“Got it,” I replied awkwardly.
My parents really should have made Awkward my middle name. It suited me better than Camille.
Olivia Awkward Owens, it had a nice ring to it.
