Twelve Nights Of Temptation

He didn’t particularly care why she’d decided to come up and tell him in person. He was just glad she had.

It was the first time she’d been inside his house. He couldn’t help but wonder if she liked the modern styling, the way it jutted out from the hillside, the clean lines, glass walls and unobstructed view. He really wanted to find out. He hadn’t been interested in Emilie’s opinion, but he was curious about Tasha’s.

“It’s not a big problem,” she said. “I fixed it. It’s fixed.”

“That’s good.” He dared to hope all over again that this was a personal visit disguised as business.

“Matt?” came Emilie’s voice.

He realized he’d forgotten all about her.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he called back to her.

“You’re busy,” Tasha said, looking instantly regretful. “Of course you’re busy. I didn’t think.” She glanced at her watch. “This is Saturday, isn’t it?”

“You forgot the day of the week?”

“Matt, honey.” Emilie came up behind him.

Honey? Seriously? After a single date?

Not even a single date, really. The date hadn’t concluded yet.

“Who’s this?” Emilie asked.

There was a dismissive edge to her voice and judgment in her expression as she gave Tasha the once-over, clearly finding her lacking.

The superior attitude annoyed Matt. “This is Tasha.”

“I’m the mechanic,” Tasha said, not seeming remotely bothered by Emilie’s condescension.

“Hmph,” Emilie said, wrinkling her perfect nose. She wrapped her arm possessively through Matt’s. “Is this an emergency?”

Tasha took a step back, opening her mouth to speak.

“Yes,” Matt said. “It’s an emergency. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our date short.”

He wasn’t sure who looked more surprised by his words, Emilie or Tasha.

“I’ll call you a ride.” He took out his phone.

It took Emilie a moment to find her voice. “What kind of emergency?”

“The mechanical kind,” he said flatly, suddenly tired of her company.

He typed in the request. He definitely didn’t want Tasha to leave.

“But—” Emilie began.

“The ride will be here in three minutes,” he said. “I’ll get your coat.”

He did a quick check of Tasha’s expression, steeling himself for the possibility that she’d speak up and out him as a liar.

She didn’t.

He quickly retrieved Emilie’s coat and purse.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Emilie said, a plaintive whine in her voice.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” He held up the coat.

“How long do you think—”

“Could be a long time. It could be a very long time. It’s complicated.”

“Matt, I can—” Tasha began.

“No. Nope.” He gave a definitive shake to his head. “It’s business. It’s important.” It might not be critical, but Tasha had never sought him out after hours before, so there had to be something going on.

“You’re a mechanic?” Emilie asked Tasha.

“A marine mechanic.”

“So you get all greasy and stuff?”

“Sometimes.”

“That must be awful.” Emilie gave a little shudder.

“Emilie.” Matt put a warning tone in his voice.

She crooked her head back to look at him. “What? It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

“It’s unusual,” Tasha said. “But women are up to nearly fifteen percent in the mechanical trades, higher when you look at statistics for those of us under thirty-five.”

Emilie didn’t seem to know what to say in response.

Matt’s phone pinged.

“Your ride’s here,” he told Emilie, ushering her toward the door.

Tasha stood to one side, and he watched until Emilie got into the car.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tasha said as he closed the door.

“It wasn’t going well.”

“In that case, I’m happy to be your wingman.”

Matt zeroed in on her expression to see if she was joking. She looked serious, and he didn’t like the sound of that.

“I don’t need a wingman.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” He gestured through the archway to the living room.

She crouched down to untie her boots.

“You don’t have to—”

“Your carpet is white,” she said.

“I suppose.”

Most of the women he brought home wore delicate shoes, stiletto heels and such.

Tasha peeled off her boots, revealing thick wool socks. For some reason, the sight made him smile.

She rose, looking all business.

“Care for a drink?” he asked, gesturing her forward.

She moved, shooting him an expression of disbelief on the way past. “No, I don’t want a drink.”

“I opened a great bottle of pinot noir. I’m not going to finish it myself.”

“This isn’t a social visit,” she said, glancing around the room at the pale white leather furniture and long, narrow gas fireplace.

She was obviously hesitant to sit down in her work clothes.

“Here,” he suggested, pointing to the formal dining room. The chairs were dark oak, likely less intimidating if she was worried about leaving dirt on anything.

While she sat down, he retrieved the pinot from the glass porch and brought two fresh glasses.

He sat down cornerwise to her and set down the wine.

She gave him an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not drinking while I work.”

“It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night.”

“Your point?”

“My point is you’re officially off the clock.”

“So, you’re not paying me?”

“I’ll pay you anything you want.” He poured them each some of the rich, dark wine. “Aren’t you on salary?”

“I am.”

“You work an awful lot of overtime.”

“A good deal for you.”

“I’m giving you a raise.” He held one of the glasses out for her.

“Ha ha,” she mocked.

“Take it,” he said.

She did, but set it down on the table in front of her.

“Twenty percent,” he told her.

“You can’t do that.”

“I absolutely can.” He raised his glass. “Let’s toast your raise.”

“I came here to tell you I might have made a big mistake.”

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