"Morning," she calls, smiling like she's genuinely happy to see me. "Hope I'm not too early."
I check the wall clock. Nine fifteen. "You're fine. I've been here for hours."
"Couldn't sleep?" She approaches my workbench, peering at the parts I've been cleaning.
"Something like that," I admit, not meeting her eyes.
She leans against the bench, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and citrusy. "Me neither. Kept thinking about dinner. About after."
My pulse quickens. "Sandra..."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to make things awkward." She straightens, putting a little more distance between us. "We almost kissed. It didn't happen. No big deal."
But the disappointment in her voice says it is a big deal. At least to her.
"It's not that I didn't want to," I find myself saying. "It's just..."
"Complicated?" she supplies. "Because I'm a customer? Because I'm just passing through?"
"Yes," I admit, grateful she understands. "All of that."
She nods, her expression thoughtful rather than hurt. "I get it. But for the record, I'm not just passing through. Not necessarily." She gestures to the Mustang. "That car's going to take at least a month to fix, maybe longer. And Grandpa's cabin isn't going anywhere. I came here for a fresh start, remember?"
"A month isn't exactly putting down roots," I point out, though a small voice in my head whispers that a month would be longer than I've let anyone get close in years.
"True," she concedes. "But it's long enough to see if there's something worth exploring." Her eyes meet mine, direct and challenging. "Unless you're not interested?"
The question is heavy with implication. Am I interested? My body certainly thinks so. Even now, standing a respectable distance away, I'm acutely aware of every small movement she makes, every shift of her expression.
"I'm interested," I admit finally. "More than I should be."
Her smile blooms, bright and genuine. "Good. Me too."
We stare at each other for a long moment, tension crackling in the air between us.
"So," she says eventually, breaking the silence. "What's the plan for today? More engine disassembly? Or are you ready to let me try some actual repairs?"
The abrupt shift to car talk throws me for a second before I recognize it for what it is: a graceful exit from an increasingly charged moment.
"Cleaning components today," I tell her, gesturing to the parts spread across my workbench. "Not exactly glamorous, but necessary."
"I'm game if you are." She rolls up her sleeves, revealing smooth brown forearms. "Show me what to do, boss."
For the next few hours, we work side by side, cleaning engine parts with solvent and wire brushes. I show her how to inspect each component for wear or damage, explaining what I'm looking for and why it matters. She's a quick study, asking intelligent questions and handling the parts with increasing confidence.
It's strangely intimate, this shared task. Our hands occasionally brush as we pass tools back and forth. Ourshoulders bump when we both reach for the same component. Each contact sends a jolt of awareness through me that's increasingly difficult to ignore.
"What's this part called again?" she asks, holding up a small metal piece.
"Rocker arm," I tell her, taking it from her hand. Our fingers touch, and I let the contact linger. "It translates the motion of the camshaft to the valves."
She nods, eyes on our still-touching hands rather than the part I'm explaining. "And it's important because...?"
"Because without it, the valves won't open and close properly. The engine won't run." My voice sounds lower than normal, rougher.
"So it's a crucial component," she says, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes. "Small but essential."
"Exactly." I'm not sure we're talking about car parts anymore.
