Читать книгу: «The Boy Toy»

“What do you want to bet you can take me?”

Pete’s taunt proved irresistible. Allison lunged for him, determined to knock him on his gorgeous butt.

Instead she found herself gripped by strong hands, hauled into the air and thrown across his hard shoulder. With quick strides he crossed the room, then she landed beneath him on the couch. They lay locked body-to-body, sex to aching sex, regarding each other breathlessly.

“A kiss?” he asked.

Before she could respond, he kissed her, brazenly, stabbing his tongue inside her mouth. She kissed him back, boldly biting his underlip.

A rumble of pleasure escaped him. His hands tugged at her top, pulling it up and over her head.

Just the heat of his gaze excited her and she arched closer to him. He dropped his head and placed a tantalizing kiss on the curve of her breast, just above her bra, drawing a moan from her.

If this was his idea of a kiss, there was no way she’d let him stop there….

Dear Reader,

When people find out that I’m an author, they often say, “You write about things that really happen, don’t you?”

Oh, I wish! Every time I hear this question I yearn to be swept away from the world of dirty dishes and stock market crashes to an erotic adventure with a rakish hero…when in reality, I’m a caveperson, hunched over my computer plotting romantic fantasies.

But it’s true that we authors write out of some wellspring deep within our own psyches. In the case of The Boy Toy, it’s the native Texan in my soul. I may have read Louisa May Alcott by the age of five, but by six, I wanted my first pair of red cowboy boots!

In this story, my heroine, Allison Tracy, is a chic city girl who has this same secret longing for those hot cowboy boots. Wary of commitment and ready for a fling, Allison sets her cap for the sexiest cowboy she can find. Gorgeous Pete Chisholm seems the perfect empty-headed stud; but like every good hero, Pete has a few surprises in store for our heroine. Now watch the sparks fly as he teaches her what she really wants, in and out of bed!

I loved writing about Allison and Pete because they’re so outrageous and hot! And I’m delighted to be writing for Blaze, a line that showcases the type of edgy, erotic, fun romances I so enjoy reading and writing. Please visit my Web site at www.eugeniariley.com or write to me at P.O. Box 840526, Houston, TX 77284-0526.

Happy reading!

Eugenia Riley

The Boy Toy
Eugenia Riley

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

1

ALLISON TRACY lifted her glass of white wine and glumly saluted her two girlfriends. “A solemn oath, ladies—I’m giving up men until the next millennium.”

Predictably, Allison’s pals Erin Bridges and T.J. Skaggs fell into such gales of laughter that around them at the upscale River Oaks cottage restaurant, heads were turned and disapproving glances were slanted their way. The three longtime friends were having an informal luncheon celebration of Allison’s breakup with her latest boyfriend a week ago. As the youngest of the three, Allison thought of the other two as trusted older sisters. She’d known them both since middle school back in Dallas.

Erin, a lovely, petite brunette, leaned across the table to cast Allison a forbearing look. “You, give up on men, Allie? Perhaps when our stuffy mayor attends a city council meeting in drag.”

T.J., a more traditional, coiffed blonde nodded as she toyed with a shrimp entree embellished with marinara sauce and goat cheese. “I agree with Erin. Just because you sent that jerk Adam packing doesn’t mean you should give up on men in general. Where would I be if I’d adopted that attitude?”

Allison flipped her heavy, golden brown hair away from her face. “This said by the rarest of all breeds—a young, upwardly mobile, happily married woman.”

“Not always that happy,” T.J. quickly amended. “My marriage has been hard work, but it’s worth it.”

Hard work. Expression grim, Allison considered her last few weeks with Adam—the endless fights, the recriminations, the tears, until finally she’d gathered the strength of will to show him the door. “Maybe I don’t want to work so hard anymore.”

“You’re just burned out, hon,” T.J. sympathized. “Really, you should consider yourself lucky that Adam didn’t get his hooks deeper into you, and go on to tackle the next challenge.”

Erin nodded firmly. “That’s just how I felt when Troy and I divorced. You should celebrate your wisdom in dumping him and move on.”

“Move on to what?” inquired Allison with a gesture of exasperation. “Let’s face it, girls. We’ve been having this same discussion ever since good old Highland Park High School. Three starry-eyed dreamers out searching for the perfect man. Well, guess what, ladies? The guy doesn’t exist. I’ve looked for Mr. Right in every possible incarnation, and the bottom line is…well, they’re all Mr. Wrong.”

“Oh, come on, Allie,” scolded T.J., but with a smirk. “The male dating pool isn’t that dismal.”

“Isn’t it?” Allison retorted. “To me, all men are pretty lame. They’re geeks, they’re jocks or they’re jerks. They’re nice and married, or they’re nice and gay. They’re too self-centered or they’re too needy. Like that spoiled doctor’s son who blew his education trust on ski trips to Breckenridge, and wanted me to put him through med school. Or Adam, who was so intimidated by my success that he wanted me to abandon my career, marry him, move with him to Wyoming, of all places, and become a little baby maker.”

T.J. chuckled. “Hon, you’re a killer in the looks department. How can any man look at you and not start imagining his future children?”

As a passing waiter gave Allison the once-over in confirmation of her friend’s words, she cast the man a cool glance. “That’s just my point. Men see me and immediately create some decadent fantasy of champagne, black lingerie and whipped cream. Just because I’m tall and leggy—”

“Don’t forget voluptuous, and drop-dead beautiful,” put in Erin mischievously.

“Come on, guys, give me a break,” protested Allison, blushing. “My point is, men see the exterior package only and conclude that I can’t possibly have a brain. Then they try to figure out how best to use me as their little pleasure vessel. Just like Adam, they all want to control me, fit me into some preconceived mold, rather than accept me the way I am.”

“And you find that shocking?” inquired T.J. “I think Don and I went out four times before he realized I’m actually an office manager and not just the girl who answers the phones at Cushman and Dodd. But he has pretty much accepted my career.”

Allison smiled. “T.J., I know you love your job, and I’m not saying this to put you down. But my situation is different from yours. Your husband is an oil trader, for heaven’s sake, and makes three times what you do. What if the reverse were true, as in the case of Erin and me—”

“Yeah, Allie with her pill pushing and me with my shoe pushing,” teased Erin, who sold Houston’s richest women five-hundred-dollar pumps on commission at the Galleria’s most upscale boutique.

Annoyed, Allison fixed Erin with a stern look. “Cool it, babe. Let’s face it—my pharmaceuticals do humanity a lot more good than your overpriced killer stilettos.”

“Pharmaceuticals?” Erin mocked. “Now who’s talking overpriced?”

Allison restrained the urge to comment. “My point is this, T.J.—what if you were the one bringing home the lion’s share of the income in your family? Wouldn’t Don find that threatening?”

“Yes, I suppose he would,” she admitted honestly.

“All of which just reinforces my conclusion that all men are insecure as well as emotionally immature,” Allison went on. “They’re thrown by a really strong woman. Adam in particular was just so needy. He never cared when I had a problem at work or with my family. But how many nights did I stay up holding his hand while he whined about how he was getting screwed at work, or how he would never meet his father’s expectations when he took over his insurance agency in Jackson? I got so tired of it all. Why, he even had the gall to complain that he wasn’t getting enough emotional support from me.”

“Meaning sex or sympathy?” teased Erin.

“Meaning both.” Allison frowned. “And you know, there’s something decidedly unsexy about dealing with an emotional cripple.”

T.J. whistled. “Emotional cripple? Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh, Allie? You always claimed Adam had his finer points….”

Allison laughed ruefully. “All right. I’ll admit he was okay in bed, and if I weren’t a young woman with certain, er, needs, I would have sworn off him long before now.” Her blue eyes grew tempestuous. “But you know, after a while of feeling so used, so drained by him, even sex became a turnoff. That’s the real kicker, girls. You share your life with someone for so many months, and in the end it becomes messy, demeaning and…well, it just hurts.”

“I know, sweetie,” Erin rejoined, patting Allison’s hand. “But don’t toss in the towel. I remember how tough you were in high school. T.J. and I would bawl our eyes out because the football captain snubbed us, while you’d just break guys’ hearts right and left and move on. Surely there’s some kind of man out there who would appeal to you.”

Allison gave a shrug. “Well, I’m not sure, but a girl’s gotta wonder…” Taking a deep breath, she demanded, “Where is this new breed we’ve been hearing about—the millennium man? A man confident of himself and his own sexuality, who will meet a woman on equal terms in an uncomplicated relationship?”

Again both of Allison’s friends burst out laughing. “Uncomplicated?” scoffed Erin. “Allie, I thought my ex was a liberated woman’s dream come true, a real sweetheart, until I discovered he was majorly sweet on his mother, too, and couldn’t cut the apron strings.”

“I agree,” seconded T.J. with feeling. “Every man has some kind of issue, some kind of baggage. Don is a very nice guy, but he’s also very high-maintenance. Our marriage has been a real struggle at times, not to mention a series of compromises. Like next year, we’re planning to start a family. I’ll have to take maternity leave, even though I know it’s not the best timing for my career.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a really great compromise,” mocked Allison. “As usual, Don is getting his way.”

“Allison, that’s not fair,” T.J. protested. “The truth is, I want a baby, and the timing is never going to be perfect. It’s not like Don can quit his job and have the little darling himself, then nurse him or her for six months.”

“Hey, T.J., I’m sorry,” Allison soothed, feeling contrite. “And you do have a point. When I have kids, I’ll only hope I can be as dedicated a mom as you’ll be, especially in those first few years.”

“But from what you’re saying, you don’t really want the home and family scene at all, do you?” T.J. pursued. “Isn’t that the real reason you broke up with Adam? Because you didn’t want to settle with him in Jackson once he took over his father’s agency?”

Allison hesitated, frowning. “The truth is, I do want a family, but when I’m ready, on my terms. I won’t have some guy dictating to me when I’m going to quit my job, leave Houston, and become barefoot and pregnant.”

“It also sounds as if this Mr. Perfect you’re looking for may not even exist,” T.J. went on wisely. “Talk about having high expectations—”

“Yeah, Allison,” Erin chided. “I think you need to get real. You spout all these lofty platitudes about meeting the ideal man, when it sounds to me like the only kind of guy who might meet your standards is some pleasant geek like Doc Tracy—and he’d bore you to death.”

Allison glowered at her friend. “Hey, Erin, no casting aspersions on my professor brother.” Inwardly, however, she had to concede that Erin had made a valid point. Her brother Doug was a very nice man, but was no woman’s definition of a heartthrob.

“Have you talked to Doug about your man problems?” T.J. inquired playfully. “After all, he’s a guy.”

Allison chuckled. “I’m afraid my scholarly older brother already thinks his wild younger sister is ‘a pox on all manhood,’ to quote his medieval vernacular. He’d likely advise that I memorize all twenty-four installments of The Canterbury Tales—in Middle English.”

Amid laughter, Erin flashed the others a sly grin. “You know, girls, maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. Perhaps the ideal man for Allie does exist—just not in the version she’s envisioning.”

“Meaning what?” asked Allison, intrigued.

Erin tapped her head with a beautifully manicured fingernail. “As always, Allie, you’re being too damn smart for your own good, attacking this on too cerebral a level.”

“Okay,” she muttered, confused.

“Be honest, now. Every time you have a halfway serious relationship with a guy, these control issues come up, don’t they?”

“Well, yeah,” Allison acknowledged.

“So why don’t you just admit that you’ve been chasing your own tail?”

“I’ve been what?”

Erin’s expression gleamed with secret merriment. “Allie, hon, I love you to death, but the truth is, you’re a serial monogamist who goes through men like the rest of us girls run through panty hose. So why not simply acknowledge the truth—that what you really want from a relationship at this stage of your life is far from intellectual.”

“Ah, so we’re back to sex again.” Allison smirked.

“So we are. Going back to T.J.’s argument that all men have baggage, I have to agree in principle. My ex, Troy, presented himself as the ultimate millennium man, smart and cool, but he had tons of excess neuroses. Dealing with him was positively exhausting in the end. So I’m betting what you really need here is not a so-called free thinker at all, but…” Erin paused to wink conspiratorially. “…maybe a boy toy.”

“Boy toy?” repeated Allison in surprise. “You mean, the type of young, sexy hunk you see on the arms of stars?”

“Sure, why not? You’re only twenty-six, young enough to get in the playpen with him if you want to. Why not find yourself that kind of brawn-over-brains stud—a man who can give you great sex with no strings attached? After all, isn’t the real issue here just what T.J. said, that you’re not prepared to settle down as yet?”

Suddenly Allison was fascinated by the possibilities. “Hmm, a boy toy. Such as—”

“Well, the pool man,” suggested Erin.

Allison chortled. “The pool man? Get out of here!”

“No, Erin’s right!” declared T.J. “When Don and I had our pool put in a year ago, the guys who did the construction were the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen in my life. You know, like cover models—with long blond hair, fabulous tanned bodies, walking around shirtless in tight, frayed jeans.” She paused to groan in ecstasy.

“T.J.!” Allison taunted. “I never realized you were a voyeur.”

T.J. bristled. “Hey, they were outside my kitchen window for weeks as I cooked breakfast. You can’t blame a girl for looking.”

“And drooling,” finished Erin. “I definitely know the feeling. Last week I almost picked up my personal trainer at the gym. I’ve never seen such perfect abs on a man. Then I found out he’s married—big bummer. But hey, there’s plenty more where he came from.”

“You know, you girls may have a point,” Allison remarked in building excitement. “I’ve seen some pretty gorgeous traffic cops, firemen and construction workers. It’s a thought. Maybe something uncomplicated would be nice for a change.”

“And don’t forget the urban cowboy car mechanic or factory worker,” advised T.J. “That’s one nice thing about Texas—we still grow good old boys here.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be a hoot?” Allison replied drolly. “Dating some male bimbo who’s as simple and empty-headed as most men seem to think I am. Let him be the sex object for a change.” She scowled. “If I could put up with the country boy b.s.—which might be a stretch.”

Erin rolled her eyes at T.J. “Looks like we’re unleashing a monster here.”

“So what’s new?” quipped T.J. “Allison always was a mankiller.”

“Hey, talk about the pots calling the kettle black,” Allison scolded back. “You guys are absolutely wicked, coming up with this fantasy.”

“Giving you ideas, eh?” Erin rejoined.

“Are you ever.” Allison’s eyes danced at the possibilities. “And who knows? I have to drop off my car for warranty service this afternoon. Maybe I can make some inroads at the dealership.”

“You mean a quick lube job from a grease monkey?” taunted Erin.

Allison cast her friend a withering look. “A grease monkey, Erin? Even I have my standards, you know. But, as I recall the salesman who sold me my ‘dream car’ was pretty cute, a former college football star or something—even if he was a real jerk to foist off such a bomb on me.”

“Sounds like a brainless good old boy to me,” agreed Erin. “And you can’t really blame him if he was born a quarter short of a ball game.”

Allison had to smile at that image. “No, I suppose I can’t. But maybe I can shame him into buying me dinner, give him a good goosing for conning me into purchasing a forty-thousand-dollar lemon with an engine that pitches like a mechanical bull—when it doesn’t tick like a bomb.”

T.J. grimaced. “Yeah, that’s pretty unfunny these days.”

Mind made up, Allison once again lifted her glass of white wine and saluted the others. “Thanks for the challenge, ladies. I hereby accept the gauntlet. Who knows? Perhaps I won’t have to give up on men quite so quickly.”

As her friends cheered and toasted her in turn, Allison smiled to herself. How she loved lunches with the girls. She’d come here today feeling really bummed, drained by the breakup with Adam, and down on men in general. But now her world was filled with possibilities again, thanks to the scheming of her friends.

A boy toy. Something fun, simple, uncomplicated. A no-strings fling.

Perhaps Erin was right that she intellectualized her relationships with men too much—assessing them all with a critical eye and finding them lacking. Why not choose a lover on a lark for a change, put some real fantasy and adventure in her life? She couldn’t possibly do any worse. This could be just what she needed for dessert—and maybe the next few months.

And this time, she was determined to have a relationship in which she set the ground rules.

2

“PETE CHISHOLM, you lazy dog, get your ugly mug out to the service lane and start checking in customers.”

Distracted from the computer screen in his cubicle, Pete swung around in his chair to glower at the brassy, middle-aged office manager, Roxy McClure. “Ugly mug?” he repeated in a menacing rumble.

Roxy grinned in a wrinkling of rouged cheeks and a flash of dimples. “Okay, gorgeous, don’t get your tail feathers in a twist. Lord knows you’re easy on the eyes, but you got way too much of a swelled head as it is.”

“Me?” Pete protested with boyish innocence.

“My point is, customers are stacked six deep, and the boss is going to blow half a dozen gaskets.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pete said dryly. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint the boss man. Why isn’t Bud checking them in?”

“Still at lunch.”

“Damn it.” Pete surged to his feet. “Meaning he stopped off for another quickie with that cocktail waitress from ’Gators. We should fire his butt.”

Roxy rolled her eyes. “You’re one to talk. How many times has Bud covered for you, Romeo?”

Mischief danced in Pete’s pale blue eyes. “Roxy, you’re killin’ me—always believing the worst.”

She waved him off. “Yeah. That’s ’cause you are the worst—and pity all the females in this world who ain’t caught on to that yet.”

He flashed her a dazzling grin. “Now, Roxy, you know you have my undying devotion. Sure I can’t talk you into checking in a few vehicles yourself?”

“Meaning, this time of day, all that shows up is cranky old ladies that ain’t taken their iron tonic, eh?”

“You know you have much more patience than I do.”

Roxy picked up a clipboard and shoved it into his hands. “Save the charm, junior. I’ve been chewing up and spitting out better than you since before you were in diapers.”

Pete roared with laughter. “I get no respect around here.”

“So what else is new? Now, get your no-good carcass out the door—and no flirting with the women customers, either.”

Pete winked. “Roxy, you know I pride myself on my charm with the ladies. Haven’t a number of them, um, requested me?”

“Yeah, I know just what kind of service they have in mind. This ain’t a cathouse, buster. ’Sides, you’re only giving Bud and the others ideas that they can get away with dallying, too, when they ain’t got nearly your winsome ways.”

Pete literally beamed with that very winsomeness.

Roxy harrumphed, tapping Pete’s clipboard, ungently shoving it toward his lean middle. “Now scram, pip-squeak.”

In a whiff of her heavy perfume, Roxy turned and sashayed off. Pete shook his head. As office manager, Roxy was hardly a bigwig here, but she’d been an institution at Westview Motors for over twenty years. Every male who worked here had a healthy fear of her feisty nature—and Pete was certainly no exception.

He strode toward the exit to the service wing, grabbing a lightweight navy jacket that matched his grease-stained shirt and pants. Stepping outside, he welcomed the slight sting of wind on this bracing early spring day. A shade tree mechanic most of his life, Pete had suffered plenty in the heat and humidity of southeast Texas summers. Autumn and spring were his favorite seasons.

He scanned the three service lanes and found cars stacked no more than three deep. As usual, Roxy had exaggerated. But Rob and Dave did look harried; the two were scrambling about, trying to do the work of three.

Although he’d been assigned Bud’s lane, he quickly decided the far lane looked more promising. Dave was hunched at the window to a twelve-year-old sedan, scribbling orders from one of their crotchety old lady customers. But behind that car, in the late-model gunmetal gray sedan, sat a real looker. Even from here, Pete caught a glimpse of a perfect, heart-shaped face and a mane of thick, light brown hair. Expensive designer sunglasses. A proud, haughty tilt to the chin. One hundred percent babe and pure temptation. Hell, he could almost smell her perfume, and like a bloodhound, he was on her scent.

Pete hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while, not since Sally Jean, who’d been so pouty and clingy. In the end, he’d felt smothered. When he’d finally told her he needed a little space, the bad-tempered woman had thrown a shoe at him. In all honesty, Pete liked doing most of the pursuing himself in a relationship. And the beauty in the far car had that snooty, untouchable air about her that sparked his love of the chase.

First, to stake his claim. He sauntered over to Dave’s lane, tapped him on the shoulder and took his clipboard. “Hey, pal, go take over for Bud. He’s still not back from lunch. I’ll sign in these ladies here.”

Dave gave a groan. “Sure, Pete, whatever you say.” He sprinted off.

Pete flashed his smile at the little old lady, who sat with screwed-up features glowering at him. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Don’t afternoon me, sonny,” she snapped back. “Why did you send away that nice young man? Now I have to explain everything to you again.”

Pete glanced at Dave’s notes. “No, ma’am. Looks like you need an oil change and a new thermostat.”

“So you can read,” she mocked. “You don’t look all that smart to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Stealing a look at the gorgeous woman in the sedan behind them, he opened the customer’s door. “The work should take under two hours if you’d like to wait. Or our courtesy van can take you home.”

“No thanks,” she muttered. “That driver of yours is a fresh rascal if I’ve ever seen one.”

Pete struggled not to laugh. Wally, their courtesy driver, was almost seventy, a jovial, retired Pentecostal minister who’d been married to the same woman for nearly fifty years, and wouldn’t flirt with a flea. “Sure, ma’am, whatever you say.” He touched her arm to help her out of the car.

“Unhand me!” she protested, slapping away his fingers. “I’ll swear you’re a worse lecher than that reprobate in the courtesy van.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he watched her clamber out of the car and stamp away toward the reception area. Damn, the female of the species was giving him a hard time this afternoon. Would the knockout in the next car cut him any slack?

A porter rushed up to move the old lady’s car. Pete handed him the top copy of the service order, then strode toward his next customer. Now came the good part. Even if she too was of a mind to roast his bacon, hell, she was pure eye candy.

He sauntered up to her window, leaned over, and offered her his usual cocky grin. That’s when she whipped off her sunglasses. Her gaze flicked up to him, and he froze, riveted. Electricity seemed to dance in the air.

Well, scorch my spurs, he thought. This woman wasn’t just a looker. She was the most gorgeous female he’d ever seen, more striking than a sunrise and hotter than a wet dream. Perfect heart-shaped face with a stubborn little chin, huge bright blue eyes that frankly probed his. Dusky long brown lashes and perfectly arched female brows. Not to mention that shock of shiny brown hair shot through with gold, a silky mass that fell to her shoulders and made him itch to sink his fingers into it. She was a tall woman, too—even folded in the seat he could tell she was at least five-ten, her shoulders straight, bust curvaceous, waist trim. He was tempted to snatch away that little hint of white blouse that kept him from fully appreciating her cleavage. And those legs—dressed as she was in her gray pinstripe suit with skirt riding high on her shapely thighs—damn, those legs went on forever!

Usually Pete knew better than to just gawk at a woman, much less a customer. He’d ease in gently, win ’em over with his charm. Especially when faced with one like her, who already had a clear spark of annoyance in her eyes from his frank perusal. Normally all that was needed was a friendly grin and an “Afternoon, ma’am.”

But in this instance all his good judgment evaporated in the heat of the look sizzling between them. Chemistry, that’s what it was. Pure, simple, sweet. Hot and volatile.

He’d likely get his butt fired over this, he thought ruefully, but suddenly he didn’t care. Leaning closer to her, he whistled, low and sexy.

“Howdy, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You know, I love how they grow ’em in Texas.”

NORMALLY ALLISON’S FIRST instinct would have been to deck the randy jackass leering at her through her open car window. His brazenness was unbelievable! All her life she’d suffered through crude come-ons from cocky cowboys—and this was a particular sore spot with her. She should knock the yokel on his spurs—but for the moment she was just too fascinated, too stunned.

For the service writer who had just strutted up to her car was no ordinary laborer. This man gave the term “drop-dead gorgeous” an entirely new meaning. The grease-stained mechanic’s uniform seemed to melt away, revealing the godlike creature standing before her in all his tawny splendor.

This man was vintage, young Paul Newman, with a shock of thick, longish blond hair and the sexiest ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. Straight, high-bridged nose, firm jaw. Fullish mouth with one hell of a sexy quirk.

About her age, mid-twenties, she judged. Tall, lean, hard, lanky.

And raking her with a steamy gaze that lingered on her bare thighs and all but pried them apart. Heavens, he was making her damp with a mere look! Defensively she yanked on her skirt, which refused to budge lower. She watched a slow grin spread across his face and could have died.

Finally remembering to be insulted at his gaze and his words she shot back, “Tell me, is acting like a jerk a requirement for grease monkeys these days, or are you just not very bright?”

Unabashed, the man chuckled. “Just trying to be sociable, ma’am. You doing all right this afternoon?”

“I was.”

“Dropping your car off for service?”