Page 16 of Tell Me No Lies
He motions with his chin in the direction of the bay. "Come on. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done."
I pull in a deep breath and blow it back out. I can’t get my car off the lift and I know exactly how far beyond needing an oil change it is, so I lift my chin, ready to steel myself against him and all his frustratingly desirable ways. "Fine."
I plan to follow behind him, but Tate falls into step beside me. We've only gone a few feet when his blue gaze dips, fixing on my braced angle. "You're limping."
"Am not." In fact, I'm working very hard not to limp.
"You are. You're favoring that ankle." His eyes come back to my face. "You’ve been overdoing it."
I shoot him what I hope is a dirty look. "And now you're gonna make me work even more."
Tate flashes me a grin. "I'm sure we can figure out a way to give your foot a rest while we work." We reach the bay and he holds up one finger, leaving me standing at the open door as he runs into the main building. He comes back a minute later, rolling two office chairs in front of him, one gripped in each hand. "Sit in this." He pushes one toward me, holding it steady.
I huff out another breath, because at this point I feel like all I do is roll my eyes and if I don’t quit, I'm gonna strain something. "You're being ridiculous."
"Says the woman who refuses to accept that she might actually need time to heal." He angles the other chair my way, turning it so the front of the seat faces me. Before I fully grasp his intentions, Tate is gently lifting my leg. He carefully places it in the seat of the other chair, elevating it in front of me.
It's the first time his hands have been on me since our collision in his office, and I suck in a breath as his calloused fingers brush over my skin. I love how rough they are. Love feeling the evidence of all the work he puts in. Of all he's capable of accomplishing.
When he crouches and his touch drifts down to brush across the tips of my toes, I grip the arms of my seat, doing my best not to react.
Tate touches the tip of one finger to my freshly polished toenails. "I didn't realize how much you like hot pink."
I swallow hard. "What makes you think I like hot pink?" I regret the question the second it slides out. I already feel too seen by this man. Further proof of just how well he's paying attention is only going to sink the claws of my feelings for him deeper.
Deep enough to draw blood.
He tips his head to one side, making it seem like the assumption was easy to make. "Your toes. Your puffy keychain." One finger traces up my brace, and I swear I can feel his touch through the ugly-ass binding. "And your old cast."
“My old cast was pretty fucking pink.” I frown down at the monstrosity on my ankle. “Way cuter than this ugly-ass thing.”
Tate looks over the brace, falling quiet for long enough I’m a little worried about what exactly he’s thinking. He pinches one of the Velcro strips running down the front, pulling it back so he can inspect what’s inside. “Can you take this off?”
“That’s why it has Velcro.” There’s not as much venom in my snap as I wish there was. “I sleep without it, but I’m supposed to wear it whenever I’m on my feet until I go back for my checkup.”
He traces one of the plastic panels surrounding the knit sleeve that hugs my leg. “I could probably make this a little less offensive if you don’t mind hanging out a little longer.”
I want to reject the offer outright. Being around Tate is bad for my health. I know that. But staring at this awful, gray and black boot isn’t doing much for my attitude, and it leaves a lot to be desired to begin with. “What can you do?”
He sits back on his heels, continuing to look over my brace. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got some water-based hot pink paint over in the body shop.” He wiggles his brows at me. “With shimmer.”
That has me sitting a little straighter. I’ve given up so much in the past few months. My apartment. My job. My cute shoes. I know painting this thing won’t make it a strappy pair of sandals, but it will sure as hell make it better than it is. “How long will it take to dry?”
“If we do it now, it’ll be dry by the time we’re finished changing your oil.”
My plans to hide away from Tate suddenly seem less imperative. “Let’s do it.”
Tate rewards my enthusiasm with a panty-melting grin. Wonder what he would think if he knew my panties are also hot pink. I’m half tempted to show him. I’ll be more than half tempted if he can make me hate this brace a little less. Maybe boning him again would be the best idea anyway. Try to rewire my brain so it only thinks about him in a physical sort of way. Securely slotting him in that emotionally detached spot forever. Might be the best idea I’ve ever had.
An hour later, my boot is taped off and sprayed in the prettiest, sparkliest pink I’ve ever seen. It looks so good I’m wondering what my car might look like in the same color. Probably blinding, which only makes it more tempting.
While my boot dries, Tate wheels me back into the bay where we started, leaving me while he collects what we need. Then, like he did last night, he patiently explains each step of the oil changing process. Going so far as to lower the lift so I can see better, even though it means he has to crouch. We’ve got the old oil draining and Tate’s explaining how to tell if I need a new filter, when a car pulls up outside.
People drop their cars off after hours all the time, but never back here. I sit up a little straighter when the driver’s door opens, eyes darting around as I search for something I can use as a weapon. My purse is clear across the room, along with the hammer I stole from Tate’s office that’s tucked inside it. Making things worse, I don’t have my brace on and I’m not sure how fast I can move without it. I’m basically a sitting duck. Unable to defend myself if I have to. Unable to run away—not that I would.
“Relax.” Tate crouches down next to me, his voice is low and calm. “That’s just our dinner.” His gaze moves over my face a second longer, like he’s looking for something.
Something I probably don’t want him to see.