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