Phoenix:
I don’t lose my temper often. At least, not with people.
But bolts?
Bolts are a different goddamn story.
The moment the head snapped off the one I’d been fighting with for ten minutes, I let out a low, guttural curse and threw my wrench like it had personally insulted me. It hit the wall with a satisfying clang and clattered across the concrete, disappearing somewhere beneath the tool cabinet.
“Son of a b***h,” I muttered, breathless with frustration. Sweat trickled down my spine, sticky and unwelcome under the band of my sports bra. My tank top was soaked and stuck to my skin in places it had no business clinging.
I dropped onto the floor beside the engine I’d been working on since sunrise, resting my arms on my knees, staring at the mess I’d made. Oil pooled around the pan
