Taking It All Read Free Page A

inside before they hit the thirty-minute-late mark. But before a word comes out, I literally bite my tongue.
    Why do I bite my tongue?
    Because it's in the way.
    Why is it in the way?
    Because I'm not thinking about what I'm saying or doing. I'm concentrating on that face .
    It's him. Colbe's friend.
    Does he work for Parker Enterprises? 
    I'm new. And it's a big enough company. It's possible. Highly probable, actually.
    His mouth is agape. I guess he wasn't expecting the crazy girl flipping him the bird to be me.
    Ha. He doesn't know me very well.
    His lips curve into a semi smile that makes me forget I'm standing in the middle of a narrow driveway, blocking traffic.
    Then he shifts his car into drive and steers into the nearest parking space. I try to ignore him as I dig in my purse for my cellphone. At least Butthead bought me an auto club membership. The towing will be free.
    As far as affording the repairs, though...
    “Need some help?” Colbe's (hot, obnoxious) friend asks as he saunters up, all knotted up in a (well-fitting) suit, perfectly-pressed white shirt, and tie.
    “No.” I wave a hand, indicating his clothes. “Wouldn't want you to get your nice suit all dirty. Besides, there's no reason to make you late too.”
    “Eh, the boss won't mind.” He shucks his jacket, and, as I try not to watch, memories of last night play through my head like a freaking movie. The button down shirt he's wearing underneath is fitted but not snug. Still, I can make out the broad line of those shoulders and the thick bulk of his biceps. The man is ripped.
    “Must be nice,” I say. “My boss is an ass. Gives me grief if I'm even a minute late.”
    “Is that so?” He points to the driver's seat. “Climb in, shift out of park, and steer.” Once I do as he says, he circles to the rear of the car and starts pushing it.
    It rolls forward.
    I'm impressed. I have no idea how hard it is for a grown man to push a car by himself, but this one is doing it easily. He's either really strong, or my car's made out of plastic or something. After I steer into the closest parking spot and shift it back into park, he walks around to the front of my car and flips his hand.
    I poke my head out the window. “Thanks for pushing me. But you don't really want me to open the hood, do you?”
    “Sure. Why not?”
    “Because you're wearing a white shirt,” I remind him as I climb out. “Besides, I don't see any tools. What're you going to do without any tools?”
    “I'm going to see if I can get your car started.”
    “No, you're not.” I lift my phone. “I was about to call the auto club. I can get it towed.”
    He rolls up a sleeve, displaying a muscled forearm. “Let me see what I can do first.”
    “But--”
    “Please,” he says with a not-so-pleading voice as he rolls up the other sleeve.
    I let him know with my face that I'm not happy about what he's doing. I don't like owing people for favors. But I reach into the car and pull the hood release.
    He lifts it and takes a look around. “Hmmm.”
    “See anything?” I ask, thinking maybe, by some miracle, I'll be able to avoid an expensive repair after all.
    He pulls on a little hooked thingy, the oil dipstick. He inspects it. “When was the last time you had an oil change?”
    I don't like where this is going.
    I don't know much about cars. But even I know that oil is important. Clean oil. Lots of clean oil. Which is why Jerkhead changed my oil every three months. “About a week ago. Why?”
    “Was your oil light on?” he asks, shoving the dipstick back into its little tube-thing.
    Oh no... “Yes. It's been stuck on for ages. Since I bought the car...why?”
    “Do you have a rag or paper towel or something?” He pulls the dipstick out again.
    “I probably have a paper napkin...” I open the little console between the front seats and dig out a McDonald's napkin. I hand it to him.
    He wipes the dipstick, slides it back into place then pulls it back out a third time.
    All