"Sure you weren't." He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, and turned to face me. His mouth curved into that almost-smile that did dangerous things to my stomach. "What's in your hands?"
I held up the beers like evidence. "Thought you might be thirsty."
"Thoughtful." He walked over, took one of the bottles, and twisted off the cap. Then he took a long drink. I watched his throat work and had about seven hundred inappropriate thoughts in three seconds.
Get it together, Demi.
"Thanks," he said, lowering the bottle. "You didn't have to come out here."
"I was bored."
"No signal to keep you entertained?"
"Shockingly, I survived."
I twisted the cap off my own beer and took a sip, looking around for somewhere to sit. The workbench along the back wall looked sturdy enough. I hopped up, settling onto the smooth wood surface, legs dangling.
Torch's eyes tracked the movement, lingering on my thighs for half a second before he turned back to the truck. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Already did."
He chuckled—low and warm—and disappeared under the hood again. I sipped my beer and watched him work. Watched the way his shoulders flexed when he reached for something deep in the engine. How his shirt rode up when he stretched,revealing a strip of tanned skin above his waistband. The confidence in every movement, like his hands knew exactly what to do and where to go.
My brain—traitorous thing—immediately wondered what those hands would feel like on me. I'd never thought like this before. Not really. Sure, I'd had crushes and a few bad dates with guys from work who talked about agile methodology over sushi. But I'd never looked at a man and felt this pull, this sheer desire.
"How's it looking?" I asked.
"Coolant system's shot. Radiator hose has a crack. Thermostat's probably stuck." He straightened, grabbed a wrench from the pegboard. "Good news is, I can patch it enough to get you to the festival. Bad news is, it's not going to last much longer after that."
"My parents will love that."
"Not your problem."
He leaned back into the engine, and I got another excellent view of his?—
"You're doing it again,” he said.
I nearly choked on my beer. "Doing what?"
"Staring." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amusement. "Specifically, at my ass."
"I was not—" I stopped. No point lying when I'd been caught red-handed. "Okay, fine. I was admiring your…work ethic."
"My work ethic." He turned fully now, setting the wrench down, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps do things that should've been illegal. "That what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
He took a step toward me. Then another. My pulse kicked up with each one.
"I'd call it mutual attraction," he said.
"That's very confident of you."
"Am I wrong?"
No. He absolutely was not wrong. But admitting it felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far the drop was.
"I don't…" I trailed off, took another sip of beer for courage. "I don't really do this."
