The Mechanic And The Delicates

My freshly laundered delicates. Blown off the line by a freak gust of wind.
They landed, of course, right in the apartment patio below.
The man who lived there was Rhys. A master mechanic whose reputation for talent was only surpassed by his notorious temper. Every woman in our building lusted after him, and every single one had been turned away by his ice-cold stare.
I had no choice. I had to swallow my pride and knock on his door.
The door opened. Rhys stood there, shirtless and steaming, still damp from a shower.
He looked down at me, his voice a block of ice.
Problem?
My face instantly burned.
Rhys could you let me in toto retrieve something?
He followed the direction of my trembling finger.
His gaze settled on the tiny scrap of black lace draped over his railing.
1
My name is Eliza. I run a bespoke designer boutique, The Atelier, in the heart of the Historic Riverwalk District.
My life used to be like the slow, quiet trickle of the river itselfcalm, contained.
Until Rhys moved in.
He opened his custom auto shop, Rhyss Customs, directly across the street from me.
In the summer heat, he was always in the same uniform: a black work tank top, combat boots, and olive-green cargo pants. His forearms were ropes of muscle, hard and ridged like granite. That face was brutally handsomeall sharp contours and untamed, feral masculinity.
But the words that came out of his mouth could curdle milk.
Zara, the owner of the trendy nail salon next door, is a sucker for a handsome face. The day Rhys moved in, she practically skipped over with a platter of organic fruit.
She was back in less than three minutes, her eyes red-rimmed.
I asked her what happened.
Zara slammed the platter onto my counter, her chest heaving with outrage. I asked him if he wanted to split some artisanal fruit, and he said my offering was hog feed!
I asked if he had a girlfriend, and he told me to mind my own damn business.
Eliza, seriously, is that man mentally ill? Hes got the face of a god, and the mouth of a sewer rat!
I glanced through my window to the street.
Rhys was easily hoisting a massive V8 engine block with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Sweat traced a path down his temple, over the sharp line of his throat, and disappeared into the soaked fabric of his tank top.
Pure, unadulterated testosterone. Definitely a sight to behold.
I pulled my gaze back and focused on stitching the silk knotted buttons of my latest design.
Best to leave that kind alone.
I truly had no intention of crossing his path. We were oil and water. He revved his engines; I listened to classic jazz.
That was the arrangement until the day a rich kid in a Maserati came to the shop.
He was a referral from an old client, supposedly looking to commission a gown for his fiance. Instead, his hands started wandering, using the measuring session as an excuse to brush my waist.
My hand, holding the soft tailors tape, froze. I looked up at him with cold steel in my eyes.
Sir, keep your hands to yourself.
The rich kid smiled, a sleazy, entitled smirk. What are you doing, playing the virgin? You open a boutique like this in a historic district, its just for show, right? Youre part of the package.
He lunged to grab my wrist.
BANG!
A noise like a shotgun blast.
The steel security door across the street was kicked open.
Rhys strode across the cobblestone street, a heavy steel pipe dangling from one hand. His face was thunderous, absolutely devoid of mercy.
The rich kid recoiled in shock. Who the hell are you?
Rhys didnt waste words. He didnt even look at the guy. He slammed the pipea piece of heavy scaffoldingonto the slate steps outside my door.
Sparks flew, hissing on the damp stone.
Get out.
One syllable. That was all.
The rich kid took one look at Rhyss bulging, scarred muscles, then at the pipe now slightly bent from the impact.
He cursed under his breath and scrambled back to his car.
I stood there, shaken but safe, looking at Rhys. Thank you.
Rhys turned, but he didnt meet my eyes.
Too loud.
He tossed those two clipped words over his shoulder, retrieved the steel pipe, and walked back to his garage.
I stood rooted to the spot, watching his retreating silhouette. I decided right then that this man was not only verbally toxic but emotionally ice-cold.
That evening, I locked up and headed home.
As I stepped into the elevator, a familiar shadow followed me in.
Rhys.
The cramped cage instantly became suffocating. He carried the heavy, unmistakable scent of motor oil and a faint undercurrent of tobacco.
I subtly retreated into the corner, trying to slow my breathing.
He pressed a button.
The floor right below mine.
Of course. The hostile new neighbor was the hostile new neighbor.
2
The elevator climbed slowly.
The air felt thin.
Rhyss presence was a physical weight. I stared at my shoes, trying to shrink into myself. This was an old building; the elevator was small and rickety. It felt packed with four people, but with just the two of us, the tension was unbearable.
Ding.
The third floor.
An elderly couple was waiting outside, ready to step in. The moment the old woman saw Rhyss severe, grim face, she froze, clutching her husbands arm.
Oh well take the next one, dear.
The doors hissed shut.
I fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of my cheek.
Rhys must have sensed it. He turned his head and gave me a quick, sharp look.
I immediately straightened my expression, pretending to examine the emergency instructions.
Something funny? he asked suddenly.
His voice was low, gravelly, and rough around the edges.
I jumped, looking up. My gaze met his dark, flat eyestwo pools of dead water, totally unreadable.
No. I instinctively denied it.
The old woman was afraid of you. I couldnt help but add the truth.
Rhys let out a humorless, short puff of air. A lot of people are.
He turned away from me.
The elevator reached the fifth floor. His floor.
The doors opened, and he stepped out.
Just as the doors began to close, he turned back suddenly.
Stop attracting stray dogs, Eliza.
I wont always have time to sweep up your pests.
He didnt wait for a response, just slammed his apartment door shut.
I stood alone in the cage, staring at the closed metal door for a long moment. Was that a warning, or was it concern?
I got home, took a shower, and tried to put the whole weird exchange out of my mind.
Life went back to normal.
Rhys and I returned to being barely on nodding terms. More accurately: I nodded; he ignored me.
But my focus on him definitely sharpened.
When I left in the morning, I subconsciously checked his window. When I locked up at night, I noticed if the lights were still on at his shop. Even while doing the books at my counter, my eyes would drift across the street.
I watched him work on engines, watched him argue with difficult clients, watched him standing bare-chested, drinking water straight from a bottle.
I absorbed the rumors, too. The women in the building muttered that Rhys was an ex-con. Some said he was a disgraced former soldier whod cracked under pressure. Others whispered about organized crime. The stories were fantastical.
I wasnt interested in gossip. I believed only what I saw.
He was intimidating, cold, and cruel-mouthed.
But he had chased off a potential attacker for me.
And when he worked on an engine, the sheer intensity and focus in his eyes Its not something a truly bad man could fake.
This appreciation lasted right up until that embarrassing night.
A sudden, fierce windstorm swept through the district.
I was on my patio, pulling in my laundry, when the gust hit. My hand felt suddenly light.
My favorite piecethat tiny sliver of black laceflew out of my grip like a kite with a broken string.
I watched, horrified, as it cleared the railing.
And landed, floating like a dark flower, right on the patio below.
On Rhyss patio.
My head went instantly numb.
I was screwed.
3
I peered over the railing.
The black lace trembled in the wind, threatening to drop onto the ground floor patio, which would be even worse.
I checked the kitchen clock.
10:30 PM.
Rhys was likely just getting back from the shop.
Do I go, or do I not?
If I didnt, tomorrow morning, the entire building would see a womans underwear hanging out on Rhyss railing. My reputation would be destroyed.
If I did, I would have to face the Ice King at his most unguarded.
I bit my lip.
My pride demanded a rescue mission.
I threw on a light cardigan, slipped into my flip-flops, and crept downstairs like a thief.
Standing outside Rhyss door, I took a deep, steadying breath and knocked.
Knock, knock, knock.
Silence.
I knocked again, harder.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Still nothing. Was he asleep?
Just as I was about to give up, the lock rattled.
Click.
The door opened a crack. A wave of wet heat and steam washed over me.
Rhys stood behind the doorframe.
Hed clearly been in the shower. His hair was slick and dripping. His upper body was bare, water tracking paths down his wide shoulders, over the hard planes of his chest, and into the low-slung, threadbare grey sweats that barely held on to his hips. The waistband rested precariously low, exposing the faint, sexy shadow of his V-lines.
I took one look and instantly snapped my gaze away, a shock of adrenaline running through me.
It was criminal. A walking fire hazard.
Late-night visitors? You trying to wake the dead?
He was clearly annoyed, his brow furrowed, his tone hostile.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. Rhys, I apologize for the interruption.
I I have something that fell onto your patio.
Rhys leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking utterly impatient. What something?
A piece of clothing.
What kind of clothing?
He wasnt going to let this go.
My face felt like it was melting. My voice was a tiny squeak. Under underwear.
Rhys froze.
A flicker of somethingamusement? surprise?cracked his cold expression. He quickly scanned my figure, his eyes lingering on the jacket I was clutching around myself, and then he stepped aside, letting the door swing wider.
Come in.
I ducked inside, feeling like a trapped field mouse.
His apartment was identical to mine, but shockingly barren. Just a sofa, a coffee table, and no television. A pile of tires and toolboxes sat in the corner. It screamed single male, zero frills.
I scurried toward the patio.
The culprit was still there, swaying gently.
But it was draped over the high corner, just out of my reach.
I sighed in frustration and gestured toward it. Rhys, could you please grab that?
He walked over, took one look, and let out a soft sound of disgust. Wait.
He didnt hesitate. He mounted the patio railing, scaling the corner like a black panther. He reached out a long, heavy arm.
His calloused, heavy hand closed around the tiny, fragile scrap of lace. The black fabric looked impossibly small and vulnerable against his brute strength.
He dropped back down and held it out to me.
Here.
I snatched it back and shoved the crumpled mess into my pocket. My fingertips inevitably brushed the center of his palm.
It was searing hot. And rough.
I yanked my hand back, my heart hammering against my ribs. Thank you.
Dont mention it.
He grabbed the towel from the back of the sofa and roughly rubbed his hair, sending droplets flying.
I couldnt look at him, turning to flee the apartment.
Hold up.
His voice stopped me at the door. I stiffened, turning back to him awkwardly.
Something else?
Rhys hung the towel around his neck, the pose pure, raw masculinity. He took a slow, deliberate step toward me.
The pressure of his body overwhelmed me. He stopped directly in front of me, looking down.
The space between us evaporated. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Eliza.
It was the first time hed ever used my name. It sounded low, guttural, and possessive.
Next time you hang your clothes, use a damn clip.
I flushed furiously and bolted out of his apartment.
4
The next time I ran into Rhys, he was back to his usual poker face. It was as if our late-night, half-naked encounter had been a hallucination.
I certainly wasnt going to bring it up.
But I started having trouble sleeping.
When I closed my eyes, all I saw was his rain-slicked chest and those bottomless black eyes.
I was becoming obsessed.
To distract myself, I accepted a massive commission: twenty custom gowns for a period drama's principal cast. The deadline was tight, the standards were insane. I practically moved into my shop, barely going home.
Late one night, I finally finished the last sample.
I checked my phone: 2:00 AM.
The entire Riverwalk District was asleep. Only the streetlights cast long, sickly yellow shadows.
I dragged my exhausted body out of the shop, locked up, and headed toward the building.
The deep autumn air cut right through my thin trench coat. I wrapped my arms around myself and hurried.
Inside the building, I pressed the elevator button.
When the doors opened, a familiar shadow once again stepped into the cage.
Rhys.
He leaned heavily against the elevator wall. He wore his usual black tank top, but had a leather jacket pulled over it. His face was etched with fatigue; there were faint smudges of dark shadow under his eyes.
In the small space, beneath the motor oil and tobacco, there was now a faint, coppery scent of blood.
My heart lurched. I immediately checked his hands.
His right hand hung at his side. The knuckles were scraped raw, peeling back the skin, and a dark stain of dried blood covered the black leather of his jacket.
Youre hurt, I blurted out.
Rhys glanced at his hand, utterly indifferent. Just a scrape.
Thats more than a scrape. The wound looked deep, the flesh torn. It was clearly from blunt-force trauma.
Mind your business. His voice was cold and dismissive.
Any sympathy Id felt instantly evaporated. Fine. I wouldnt bother him again.
I stayed silent, watching the numbers climb.
At the third floor, the elevator lurched violently.
The lights flickered, buzzing with a sharp electric crackle.
Then, everything stopped dead.
My stomach dropped. I lunged for the emergency bell.
Nothing.
Worse, my phone had zero service.
In the sudden darkness, I could only hear my own frantic, shallow breathing.
Dont move.
Rhyss voice cut through the dark, steady and powerful.
A moment later, a beam of light cut the blackness. Hed turned on his phone flashlight.
The light hit his face, making his features harsh and his eyes chillingly calm.
Its an old problem with this piece of junk, he muttered.
He walked over to the panel, pressed a few buttons, and kicked the door.
No luck.
Might as well sit. The building maintenance crew wont check until morning.
He slid down the wall and sat, stretching his long legs out.
I watched him, uncertain.
Sit down. He patted the floor beside him.
I hesitated, then sat on the opposite side, maintaining a careful distance.
Minutes crawled by. The air became thick and heavy.
The coppery scent of blood grew stronger.
I couldnt stand it. I dug through my sewing kit bag and pulled out a travel-sized bottle of alcohol spray and a couple of large, waterproof bandages. They were necessary for my line of work.
Give me your hand. I looked at him.
Rhys looked up, a wry, challenging smile touching his lips. What, you trying to take advantage of the situation?
I laughed, a sharp, angry sound. Fine. Let it get infected, then. See if I care.
I started to put the supplies away. A large hand shot out suddenly and locked around my wrist.
The grip was fierce, his palm hot. He pulled me slightly closer and held the injured hand out to me.
Do your worst.
I glared at him, then lowered my head and began to clean the wound. He didnt flinch when I sprayed the alcohol.
When the bandages were secure, I started to pull away.
But he didnt release my wrist.
Instead, his thumb began to gently stroke the soft skin of my inner wrist. Right where my pulse hammereda frantic, uneven drumbeat.
Eliza.
He looked at me in the dim light, his voice raspy and hoarse.
Are you falling for me?
My mind went completely blank. I opened my mouth, ready to issue a denial.
If you didnt like me, why do you constantly stare at me?
He closed the distance between us, his intense male scent engulfing me.
If you didnt like me, why didnt you run away from me?
If you didnt like me
He lowered his head, his nose almost touching mine, our breaths mingling.
Why is your heart running like a runaway train?

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