I’m sure he’s used to sexy moves.
“I got crapped on.”
His grin turns into a full on smile, his straight white teeth shining bright, and his eyes smiling along with his cheeks. “I noticed.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I have a meeting, and I saw you get out of your car. I watched you frown.”
“My tire’s flat.”
Walking around my car, he locates the deflated piece of rubber. “Keys?” His hand is outstretched, and I’m not sure what he’s planning on doing.
“It’s not good to drive on a flat. I’m going to call roadside assistance.”
That grin appears again, and my knees slightly wobble. He advances once more, his eyes not leaving mine. Lowering his face to my ear, his breath fans across my cheek as in a deep and sensual voice he says, “I’ll change your tire—you can watch.”
He begins to unbutton his shirt. One. Damn. Button at a time, and my legs quiver.
In the parking lot of my office, where my co-workers can come out at any moment, my hot off his ass neighbor hands me his shirt, then holds his hand out for my keys.
It’s possible I may be panting, but I’m trying to keep it together.
I hand over the keys. “Here you go, Offside.”
He looks at me, head slightly tilted and a flash of confusion clouding his dark eyes.
I can’t help the name. He draws me closer to an invisible line I know I shouldn’t cross . . . yet the idea is extremely tempting.
“Offside?” he questions.
I shrug, willing the blush that is beginning to creep up my neck away. “I like to give people nicknames. All of that,” for the second time today, I point to his chiseled physic, “pushes me out of my comfort zone.”
He smirks and takes a step forward. “Hm. Offside. I like it, Green Eyes,” he says as he bends down, his lips grazing my ear. “And one day, maybe you can step across my line and I’ll give you a penalty.”
My breath catches as he quietly steps away and begins to work on my car, as if that exchange had no effect on him whatsoever.
I had no idea people in today’s world changed their own tires. I remember watching my dad do it a few times when I was a child, but Matt was never one for manual labor. Now, watching Damian’s muscles flex as he raises the car with some contraption he found in my trunk, I’m thankful Damian Walker knows how to change a tire. I’m gawking, possibly drooling as each one of his back muscles flexes and moves with each stroke he makes. His jeans are low on his hips and his entire back viewable for my pleasure. That faint scar that runs the length of his torso stretches and moves with him.
Now this should be a Super Bowl commercial. Not a half-naked girl eating a Big Mac on top of a Chevy, but Damian Walker, shirtless and pumping up a car with a slogan that says, ‘Get under my hood, and I’ll give you a jump start’. I’d get under anything he asked me to as long as he kept his shirt off.
He’s bending down and removing the tire, replacing it with the spare. The entire process takes less than twenty-minutes, my car back in working order except for the shit still smattered all over it.
I wish it had taken longer.
“You’ll need to handle the crap. I’ve got to get to another meeting.” He’s barely broken a sweat, and he’s still shirtless. I can’t help but stare. Placing my keys back in my hand, he folds his fingers over mine and gently squeezes.
“Thank you.” My eyes finally leave his abs and meet his dark intense gaze as I hand him his shirt.
Gradually, he slips his arms through each sleeve, leaving a sliver of taut, hard muscle exposed. Starting at the top, he begins to button the white fabric, slowly, meticulously and deliberately taking his sweet time, until he’s completely covered, except for a sexy triangle of skin at the top. I exhale the breath I’d been holding and look up into his intense gaze, his lips curving into a knowing grin.
“Come by later. I’ll make you dinner.”
“Don’t you think I should be making that offer? You just changed my tire.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t offer. See you at seven.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s quite obviously a cake.”
I’m still looking at the mess on the plate she’s brought over.
“Obvious to who?”
“Just for that, you don’t get to try any. I worked hard on this lemon cake, gave up a few hours of reading time to make it for you.”
Shit, this chick can’t cook to save her life. If I’d made this, I’d never admit it to anyone. “It looks . . . delicious. Thanks.”
She seems relieved that I’m not harassing her anymore about the cake, and I feel slightly guilty that I didn’t appreciate her efforts right off the bat. This is the first time she’s been inside my apartment, and she’s taking it all in. Her eyes roaming around the colorful paintings I have on each wall and all the books about the mechanics of the human body that are strewn about my coffee table.
I place the cake on the counter and join her on the dark blue sofa. “How’s your car?”
“Finally clean.” She continues to peruse the books. “Are you studying to be a doctor?”
She’s wearing loose white cotton pants and a comfortable blue T-shirt which on most women would look baggy and frumpy, but on her, the material of the shirt outlines her breasts perfectly, and it hangs low exposing an ample amount of cleavage that is staring me in the face. I’m semi-hard just sitting next to her and wondering how I can get through tonight without touching her. Because no matter how badly I’d love to play doctor with her this very moment, jumping into bed with my new neighbor would be a very bad idea. And I’ve been done with bad ideas for a long time now.
“No, I’m not a doctor, just fascinated with the way the human body works.” I get up and reach for a bag resting on the chair next to my couch. “I bought you something.”
She looks at me wide-eyed, her bangs falling slightly to the left and covering part of her face. Damn those eyes never fail to draw me in. Every time I look into them I get a little lost, and I’m not sure I want to be found.
“Well, where is it?” she asks.
Startled back into the here and now, I pull a pillow out of the bag and hand it to her as I sit back down.
She inspects every inch of it, her forehead bunched in confusion. “Why red?”
“Your apartment needs a little color.”
“What’s wrong with my apartment?”
“It’s all white.” Her eyes scan the living room again, taking in the colorful photos, the royal blue sofa we’re sitting on, and the white and red striped rug in front of her.
“I like white. It’s a consistent color, matches with everything, and never lets you down.”
“It’s boring,” I argue.
She shrugs. “But still, why red? Why not blue or green—or yellow for that matter?”
“Yellow? Who decorates with yellow?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I saw that pillow in a window walking through town today. There’s nothing special about it, but it’s red and the minute my eyes landed on it, Addison’s face popped into my vision. I wanted to see that pillow smack in the center of her white living room. It kills me that everything is so sterile. I see sterile all the time at the hospital, and it’s depressing.
“Red’s a great color, Addison. It represents a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Life, love, and . . . lips.”
Her eyes blink for every one of the words I just used, and she still seems confused.
“You’re an attorney, I thought you were supposed to be smart.” She throws the pillow at me.
“Lips are pink.”
“Yours aren’t.”
Her hand reaches up to her mouth and the tips of her fingers trail along the outer edges of her perfectly curved cherry colored lips.