Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 67

Chapter 67

I’m halfway through shelving a stack of used thrillers around noon, when Gemma walks in the front door like she owns the street and the air around her. There’s a coffee in one hand, her sunglasses are still perched on her head despite the overcast skies, and she has that look on her face -the one that says she’s in the mood to stir up a little chaos,

“Why do you look like someone just handed you the last slice of cake and then insulted your shoes?” she asks dramatically, plopping her bag down on the counter and then leaning against it like it owes her money

“Because life is complicated, Gemma,” I mutter, shifting a book titled “The Silent Widow” to its proper alphabetical home. Then add with a hidden smirk, “And also, because I may or may not have gotten hit on this morning by a very attractive man with oil on his hands and bad intentions in his smile.”

Gemma freezes, her coffee halfway to her mouth, and asks, “Excuse me?”

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably, as I say, “He was the mechanic who came to fix my tire. He flirted, so I flirted back.”

“You flirted back?” she asks incredulously, as she sets her coffee down like this is an emergency that requires both hands. “Harley Blake, are you okay? Do I need to check for signs of body snatching? Alien possession, maybe?*

I snort very unladylike, before saying, “I can flirt, you know. Especially when the guy looks like he moonlights as a Calvin Klein model in tight Jeans.”

“I’m not judging,” she says, though her grin says otherwise, then adds, “I just didn’t think we were there yet. You’ve been in this mysterious mood all week after your break–up with Steven last week. I figured you were still busy pining over that camstain.”

1 arch a brow, skipping over the whole Steven comment, and ask, “You think

k I’m the p

pining type?”

She gives me a long look, then says all sage–like, “This whole week you looked like someone’s watching you, and you’re trying to make sure they see what they missed. That mechanic–hottie just so happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

My smirk falters, but only slightly, before I say, “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Mmhmm.” Gemma hums as she picks up her coffee again. “Tell me what he looked like. And don’t spare me any of the filthy details.”

I sigh, but it escapes with a chuckle. “He’s tall with an impossibly sharp jawline and tattoo sleeves down both arms. Kinda cocky, maybe, but in a way that works.”

“Dangerous,” she nods approvingly. “I like it. Did he give you his number?” she asks as she takes another sip of her coffee.

“No,” I say, dragging the word out.

Gemma, the clever old bat, immediately catches on and asks, “But you gave him

yours?”

“Correct.”

She winks, smiling like a proud mama bear as she says, “Even better!”

Around 4 pm, I head to the staff room, which smells like cinnamon tea and ancient receipts today for some obscure reason. I drop into one of the mismatched armchairs we keep near the kettle, my legs curled under me, and balance my phone on my knee.

I’ve been on my feet since I stepped in earlier, and I need just a few minutes to regroup and rest my sore piggies.

A buzz suddenly sounds from my phone with a new message that I initially think might be the tracking details for my latest Amazon shipment.

Dean: I hope your Friday’s been as cute as you looked this morning. I’m not usually this smooth, so feel free to pretend I sold something cooler.

I blink at it. Then read it again. And then my stomach does that weird fluttery thing it does when I’m not sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes.

Cute. He thinks I looked cute. Even with my messy hair, coffee–stained t–shirt, and threadbare cardigan. He either has questionable standards or a decent imagination.

Delete.

Then I type again: You say that like you’ve got a bench full of mechanics rating clients in the break room.

And then I set the phone down, as if it might combust into flames in the palm of my hand. The truth is, receiving his message feels…fine. Nice, even. But it’s not the spark I crave. It’s only a flicker. A single match trying to warm a fireplace that remembers a different fire, nay, an inferno, altogether.

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