Page 37 of Sparrow

If he thinks they detract from the dangerous aura he works so hard to maintain.

And the moment I think that, my mouth twitches on a smile.

His eyes drop to my mouth and come back to my own, even more shocked now, and I extend my thoughts three steps further. I wonder if he actually is as dangerous as he pretends... and if anyone ever gives him the chance to be who he actually is.

The man who’s evidently shocked beyond belief that I just made fun of him.

“Are you actually going to help?” he asks. “Or are you planning to just stand there and make fun of me?”

I want to say I’m going to stand here and make fun of him. God, I want to say it so badly. But that brings the balance of the thought I had earlier. I can see him expecting me to walk away. Tell him he’s not worth my time or that I have things I’d rather be doing than helping him. I can see him assuming I don’t want anything to do with him.

But I remember that flash of the real him I saw this morning, fueled by chocolate and whiskey.

And I want more of it.

“I can help,” I say, crossing my arms.

He scoffs. “I bet you can’t. You didn’t even know what a wrench was.”

I shrug. “So teach me. I’m a quick learner.”

I don’t tell him that I’m at the top of my class in college or that I’m a business major with a specialty in engineering. I definitely don’t say that I’ve never seen any of these tools but I’m already cataloging what they could be for and how to use them because I’m a quick study and have a mind that picks things up quickly.

I’m guessing he’ll be sweeter if I let him think he’s teaching me.

And somewhere deep down in my soul, in a hidden corner I try not to look at, there’s a piece of me that will do whatever it takes to have that sort of contact with him. A piece of my heart that wants to know everything I can about Orion. And that piece knows that getting to know this man started with hot cocoa... and might grow with something as simple as a set of tools in a garage.

He scowls at me for a moment too long, and the look starts to take on a weight I didn’t expect. The air between us grows heavy and thick with expectation, colored with the knowledge that we’re both thinking about more than the truck or the wrench. He looks between my eyes, searching for something, and I hold my breath and wonder what he’s looking for.

Wonder why I’m looking back at him with the same question.

Then he jerks, catching himself, and pulls away abruptly. He shoves his head back under the hood of the truck and starts using the wrench to loosen a bolt, and before long he’s got his hands full with the piece he’s just taken out of the engine. He holds it out, waiting for someone to take it, and I step forward, grab it, and put it on the tray.

“What do you need?” I ask simply.

“Screwdriver,” he says. “Phillip’s head.” There’s a short pause, and then: “That’s the one that looks like it has a cross on the end.”

I turn to the cart and take a moment to find the screwdriver, checking the end carefully to make sure it’s right, and when I hand it to him, I swear I can see him hiding a smile behind that scowl.

I take that as a sign of approval and move to stand next to him, watching him work on the engine like it’s a part of his own body. He tightens things and loosens other things, takes out parts and adjusts them, and then replaces something that evidently didn’t work right. When he needs someone to steady something I lend him my hands, and when he needs something, he describes it so I can find it.

At one point he needs to get something from another cart and steps away.

“Don’t touch anything,” he says sharply.

Of course I reach out and touch the thing he’s just been working on. How else am I going to learn what it does? The moment I touch it, though, it pops free and falls to the ground.

I stare at it, horrified, and then pick it up, anxious to put it back where it came from.

He returns when I’m still holding it, takes one look at the piece in my hand, and turns his eyes up to mine. He looks deeply, deeply disappointed, and my heart starts hammering in fear.

I hate being in trouble.

“Is this expensive?” I whisper. “Did I break it?”

“Yes it’s expensive,” he says, grabbing it from me. “And I’m billing you.”

“Really?” I ask.