Page 28 of Truck Me
There’s way too much at stake.
Chapter 7
Bartering for services is something I think I could get used to when it involves my grumpy, sexy neighbor.
Charlotte
It’s almost nine o’clock at night when I finally talk myself into following through with my plan.
My parents are in the living room watching TV, and Rayne is in her room reading while I’ve stared at the extra pan of lasagna I made for far too long, debating on whether or not to deliver it to Garret.
I haven’t seen Garret since I brought him the cookies last week. I keep waiting for him to call or come over to tell me the status of my car, but he’s been annoyingly scarce.
My plan was simple.
Make two pans of lasagna. One for us, and one to take over to him after we finished eating. Even my mom thought that was a great idea.
But for some reason, I’ve turned into a chicken shit. I can’t seem to get myself to put on my coat and walk it over to him.
This isn’t a big deal.
It’s lasagna.
Everyone loves lasagna, right?
It’s not like I’m heading over to his house to be a nuisance. It’s a friendly, neighborly thing to do.
Plus, I need to know the status of my car.
I press my hand to my stomach in an attempt to squash the anxiety swirling around in my gut. I’ve no clue why the thought of seeing him again is making me queasy, but it is.
“Stop being stupid, Char.” I scold myself and grab my coat from the hook by the back door. After slipping it on, I wrap a scarf around my neck and put on some wool gloves. I look down at my boots and decide they’re perfect for a walk to the neighbor’s house. Simple. Flat. Practical.
Neighbor. That’s all Garret is. He’s just a grumpy neighbor that I’m being nice to.
There’s no reason to be nervous.
Before I can talk myself out of it again, I grab the pan of lasagna—that’s now cold—and head out the back door. Despite how well I’ve bundled up, the bite of the night air cuts right through me.
I move quickly, doing my best to pretend my nose didn’t instantly freeze when I stepped outside. It’s way too cold for a leisurely walk, so I’m more speed walking through the wooded trail.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before I’m stepping out onto the other side of the woods. I sigh in relief when I see his lights are on. I don’t make a habit of calling upon friends this late, let alone grumpy neighbors. Hopefully, he won’t be too much of a bear about me coming over at this hour.
A sharp bark from Bullet follows my knock on his door. Moments later I hear a low rustling sound, then a thump, almost as if his feet hit the floor hard.
When he opens the door, he’s in the middle of pulling a Henley over his head. It’s covering his face, but his chest is bare.
Mother of God and all that is Holy.
His chest and abs are what dreams are made of. Or at least, like those of professional athletes or models who spend countless hours in the gym. But not backwoods gearheads who spend their time fixing appliances and cars.
My eyes fall to his defined abs and how his jeans hang loose around his hips.
And the tattoos. Every inch of his chest and abs and what I can see of his arm are covered with art. I’ve never seen so many tattoos up close before.
I gasp at the sight of him. I might even moan. My mouth definitely falls open, and I quickly snap it shut. My gaping is embarrassing enough. I don’t need to make lusty sounds too.
My eyes unabashedly follow the line down the middle of his chest. It’s highlighted by deep ridges and valleys of nothing but hard muscle covered in ink.