“Yeah. Your monkey, your circus.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Just put the spare on and quit rollin’ your eyes. Didn’t your mama ever tell you they’d get stuck back there if you did it enough?”

She laughs, arms lugging the heavy spare, struggling to fit it onto the hub. “Yes, she did—all the time.”

She’s watching me and not what she’s doing, a small smile on her lips.

Cute.

Really fucking cute.

“Now grab the nuts and tighten them until they’re snug, one at a time. Like a star, first that one, then this one,” I point to each spot and the pattern I want her to follow. She hesitates. “Go on.”

“What if it falls off on my way home because I did it wrong?”

“It won’t fall off.”

She’s skeptical. “If you say so.”

“I do. I’ve changed plenty of tires.”

“Ty-ers,” she echoes, that smile dancing, eyes sparkling as if I’ve said something to amuse her.

“Stop teasin’ me and keep workin’.”

She grunts, her delicate hands now covered with grease and dirt, pink nail polish no doubt chipping from the contact with the metal rim. I reach in to lend a hand, forearms and biceps straining with the motion.

Charlotte’s eyes stray to my muscled torso, and when I catch her gawking, she has the courtesy to blush so deep I can see it in the dim, dusky haze.

Busted.

Looks like Charlotte isn’t immune to me after all. My biceps are pretty damn big; even dudes are impressed.

She lowers her gaze, training it on the wheel and the task at hand.

Right. Back to business.

“Next we’re gonna lower the car to the ground, so grab the handle for the jack and turn it counterclockwise.” I hand her the silver wrench for the jack and she gets to work lowering it. “Okay, good job,” I praise. “Now finish tightening them nuts, tight as you can.”

“I do that after I lower the car to the ground?”

“Yup.”

“All right.” Her fingers nimbly pick up the tire iron. Spin each lug nut. “Done.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“I changed my own tire?”

“You did.”

“I did?” She sounds excited, as if I’ve just surprised her with a gift or an unexpected award. “I can’t freakin’ believe it! I changed my own tire!”

Charlotte straightens beside me, doing a little hop beside her car—a dance, really. She squeals.

It resembles the movements my teammates might make after they’ve scored a touchdown and are celebrating in the end zone.

Sort of.

I stand, too, and she throws her arms around my neck—or tries to.

“Thank you so much.”

Tempted to pull her in, I give her an awkward pat on the back. “Welcome.”

She pulls back and looks at my face, all serious but with a megawatt grin. “No, seriously. Thank you, Jackson.”

Well shit, there she goes using my real name.

No one has done that in an age, including my own parents.

“You can call me JJ.”

“Meh. I don’t think I will.” She just has to be stubborn and difficult.

“Then I’m not callin’ you Charlie.”

“Fine. Don’t.”

I cock my head to study her. “Fine, Charlotte.” I might be imagining it, but I think she shivers, and it isn’t even cold out. “You should get home. I’ll put your tire in the trunk—you need to make sure you get it to a mechanic or get a new one. You can’t drive around on that donut long.”

“All right.” For once, she doesn’t argue.

“Give me your number.”

Charlie

“Give me your number,” he says.

Ha—nice try. “Pfft. I’m not going out with you, but nice try.”

“I’m not gonna ask you out. I want to make sure you make it home on this spare tire.”

This spare ty-er.

Ugh, that accent. It’s killing me.

“You don’t trust my handiwork? You said it would be fine.”

He smirks, leaning against my car and crossing those big, beefy arms across his ridiculously broad chest. Already has his phone out and fingers poised over the screen. “Just give me your dang number and quit bein’ a smartass.”

I guess he has a point about making sure the tire can get me home; I’ve never driven on a spare, let alone one I changed myself, and frankly, the idea freaks me out a bit.

It couldn’t hurt to give him my number—not if he only wants to follow up and check on me. The gesture is kind, makes me feel…protected and safe, and I haven’t felt that in a good, long while.

Not since I’m so far from my parents, who used to do everything for me, especially my dad.

“Maybe I could teach you to change your own oil.”

Your own ole.

Jesus. I have to stop talking to this guy before he and his accent turn my girl parts to complete mush. He’s an asshole with an annoyingly large truck.

“Thanks, I’m good.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“On the side of the road on Friday night?”

“Ha ha. Well, you’ll have my number if you ever have an emergency. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

Yeah, that’s not going to happen, but I keep that to myself. I don’t want to sound ungrateful; he just came along and helped me. I didn’t have to call a tow and have a strange man pull up in the middle of the night, and I didn’t have to pay out of pocket.

He hands me his phone while he sets about rearranging the contents of my trunk, making room for the flat tire, then, with one hand, slings it into the back as if it weighs nothing.

“Your number?” He nods toward his phone.

My top teeth fiddle with my bottom lip, unsure. I mean…what’s the worst thing that could happen if I give him my phone number? He messages me too much and I have to block him?

Not like I haven’t had to do that with people before…

“All right.” My head tilts and I pop the digits into his contacts then hit save.

Have a brief panic attack.

No turning back.

Savannah will die when she hears I gave Jackson Jennings Junior my cell number, even if he isn’t going to ask me out. And even if his name is ridiculous.

He has it now, and she was all gaga over him last week.

I toss him his phone and he palms it before jamming it into his back pocket. “I’ll shoot ya a note in a bit to check on you.”

“Thank you for stopping.” I clear my throat. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jackson points to my driver’s side door. “You should get going. I’ll be in touch.”

I shuffle toward my vehicle. “Thanks again.”

“Yup.” He watches me climb in, buckle my seatbelt. Continues watching until I glance out my window and give him a jaunty little wave.

He shoos me away before climbing into his truck, the dark tint of his windows offering no glimpse of his form. For all I know, he’s sitting inside, on his phone. Or, staring at me.