Declan plopped down beside her. “Let me do it.”
“Go away!” She planted an elbow in his ribs, keeping her hands on the filter. His grunt was music to her ears. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Stubborn female,” he retorted, reaching over her head.
They fought for control of the cylinder, fingers rubbing together.
Depending on what she’d been doing in the garage, her hands could look like they’d been soaked in battery acid. Today her cuticles were crusted with oil and dirt, the tips black with grime. It would take a solid ten minutes of scrubbing to get them clean.
His nails, in comparison, were immaculate.
Perfectly neat and tidy.
Wasn’t the woman was supposed to be the pretty one?
“Just Rachel.” He slid his other hand up, cuffing her wrist with his fingers. “I’m trying to be polite, but you’re starting to piss me off. Let go and move your hands. I’m not asking again.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He turned his head, looking at her. “Why?”
Keeping her eyes forward, staring at their interwoven hands, she tried to decide how to respond. Anyone with a reliable set of ears could hear the way he rolled the words off his tongue. He might as well have been calling her Honey pie, Sugar Cakes, or Baby Doll.
“You say it like an endearment.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You get me about as hot as the Artic. That’s what’s wrong with it.” The enormous lie breezed from her mouth. The man was like a rash that constantly itched. “I’m not your Boo-Boo, and you sure as shit ain’t my Teddy Bear.”
“Hmm,” he hummed, drawing out the sound. “We’ll see.”