Time ticked by at a pace that felt slower than a sloth's stroll. After 30 minutes of awkward standing, my feet began to ache. To add insult to injury, as the sun dipped towards the horizon, the local mosquitoes saw me as their grand buffet and were feasting on my royal blood.
"Please, go away," I muttered, swatting at the persistent bloodsuckers while trying to maintain my poised exterior.
I probably looked like a highly fashionable scarecrow right now. With my feet throbbing and the pesky insects having a field day, I contemplated seeking refuge inside the shop.
Suddenly, Luke bolted out of the shop, clutching a mug of water.
"Hey, uh, you look kinda hot," he said, thrusting the mug toward me, "Here, have some water."
I eyed the mug suspiciously.
"Oh, no, thanks," I declined politely, shaking my head and taking a slight step back. "I'm good, really."
"Come on, it's just water. And it's hot out here. You should go inside."
"Nah, I'm fine here, really. Plus, I've developed this weird phobia of worn-out sofas with holes in them. It's a thing. But thanks anyways."
"Okay….. then suit yourself," he said, clearly giving up on convincing me.
He shuffled back to the garage, leaving me standing there. But as if my day had not gone completely out of control, a sudden gust of wind swept through Hicksville, snatching my stylish hat and sending it tumbling across the road.
"Oh no, not the hat!" I exclaimed in horror.
Without a moment's hesitation, and with the grace of a newborn giraffe trying to strut, I sprinted after it in my Christian Louboutin stilettos, trying to maintain my poise while making a mad dash across the road. I think the scene was an absolute spectacle: a city girl, sunglasses perched on her nose, bag swinging, and legs tottering precariously on stilettos, chasing her hat.
Mid-hat-chase, just as I was about to dive headfirst into a bush to catch my headpiece, a big, veiny hand snatched it out of thin air. The Patek Philippe Calatrava watch wrapped on the wrist of the man didn't go unnoticed by me. With a flustered gasp, I glanced up, only to come face to face with the most ruggedly handsome man Hicksville could muster.
"Wow," I absentmindedly uttered, mesmerized by his gorgeous face and captivating blue-green or turquoise, resembling the color of the ocean. It was mesmerizing.
He looked as surprised as I felt, his eyes wide like he'd stumbled upon something shocking or extraordinary.
"I mean, hi. Thanks for catching that," I added, trying to save face, eyeing my hat now safely in his grip.
He nodded, looking somewhat dazed. "Sure, uh, no problem."
Then, without a speck of hesitation—probably the result of panic or just my confidence—I blurted out, "So, want a drink or, uh, maybe I can get your number?"
Smooth, Scarlett. Real smooth.
He blinked, clearly taken aback by my forwardness. The poor guy seemed utterly baffled.
I stood there, feeling sheer embarrassment for my bold (read: a ridiculous) attempt at a pick-up line.
"I'm sorry what?" he chuckled.
Before I could reply, the teenager ran towards us, panting heavily and calling out to the man.
"Sir Gab!"
Oh, so this man was Gab.
"Hey, Sir Gab, this lady here needs her car fixed," the boy added.
Gab's gaze shifted from the boy to his garage, his eyes landing on my pink sports car parked. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned to me, and his question emerged, sounding amused.
"That sports car—is it yours?"
I nodded confidently, "Yup, that's mine. It's, uh, having a bit of a moment."
Gab's smile widened, "Before I hand over my number, how about telling me your name first?" he asked, a playful look in his eyes.
My cheeks flushed crimson at the directness of his request. It wasn't the first time someone asked for my name, but the simplicity of the question seemed to catch me off guard this time. My thoughts drifted, a brief pang of reflection washing over me.
In the past, relationships had been nothing but a series of disappointments. They were more about my wealth than any genuine connection, leaving me feeling like an open wallet rather than a person.
But make it a Goyard wallet.
They never bothered with the basics—like remembering my name.
"Oh, of course," I stammered, "It's Scarlett."
"Scarlett," he repeated, nodding. His voice almost caressed the syllables.
Shaking off the unexpected fascination with the sound of my name in his voice, I couldn't help but notice his keen eye-catching the rash on my skin, likely from the mosquitoes.
"Let's get inside before you catch more rashes," he said, almost worriedly.
I nodded, following his lead. As we approached the garage, Gab wasted no time getting down to business. He swiftly went over to my car, inspecting it. Watching him, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that Pinky was finally in good hands.
As I observed Gab expertly handle his tools and inspect my car, I couldn't deny the strong attraction. The way he effortlessly maneuvered the equipment was oddly captivating, and the grease smudges on his cheek did nothing to diminish his appeal.
He's just cool, hot, and sexy at the same time. Seeing those big, veiny hands did something in me—what? Seriously, Scarlett, get a hold of yourself!
Lost in my observation, I must have been staring a tad too long because suddenly, Gab glanced up, catching me in the act.
"Uh, sorry," I mumbled, attempting to play it off.
With a chuckle, Gab teased, "Hey, if you keep eyeing me like that, I won't be able to focus."
Realizing how inappropriate it might've seemed, I quickly averted my gaze, feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over me.