"You seem happy," she observes, glancing at me. "It's a good look on you, Torres."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the direct acknowledgment of my feelings. "It's early days."
"Maybe," Sage says. "But sometimes you just know." She pats my arm. "Don't overthink it."
Easier said than done. Overthinking is practically my specialty. But as Sandra rejoins us, slipping her hand back into mine like it belongs there, I decide to try taking Sage's advice. For tonight at least, I'll just enjoy this moment, this feeling, without analyzing it to death.
Later, back at my place, we make love slowly, savoring each touch, each kiss. There's an intimacy to it that goes beyond physical pleasure, a connection I've never felt with anyone before.
Afterward, as Sandra dozes in my arms, I think about the future in a way I haven't allowed myself to for years. Imagining her things mixed with mine, her presence in my home becoming permanent. Imagining mornings and evenings and all the moments in between.
It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I'm falling for her hard and fast, and part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong, as it inevitably does.
But for now, with Sandra's warm body pressed against mine, her breath soft against my neck, I push those thoughts aside. Tonight was perfect. She's perfect. And I'm going to hold onto this feeling as long as I can.
The buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts. I carefully reach for it, trying not to wake Sandra. The text is from an unknown number, but the content makes my blood run cold.
Unknown:Heard you're playing house in that mountain town, D. Cute. Time's up on your little vacation. We need to talk. You know what happens if you ignore me. -V
My jaw clenchesas I stare at the screen. Vanessa. After five years of silence, she's suddenly resurfaced. The timing couldn't be worse.
I glance down at Sandra, peaceful in sleep, unaware of the storm clouds gathering. I've never told her about my past in Vancouver, about the real reason I left. About the debts and mistakes that drove me to Crimson Hollow in the first place.
I delete the text, but the damage is done. The bubble of happiness I've been living in for the past two weeks has just been punctured. Reality is creeping back in, and I have no idea how to keep it from destroying the best thing that's happened to me in years.
Sandra stirs, murmuring something in her sleep before settling again. I tighten my arms around her, suddenly protective, as if I can physically shield her from the complications of my past.
But I know better. Secrets have a way of surfacing, especially the ones you most want to keep buried. And mine are about to come knocking, whether I'm ready or not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANDRA
"Hand me the socket wrench," I say, reaching out without looking up from the Mustang's engine bay. My fingers close around cool metal as Diesel places the tool in my hand. "Thanks."
"You're a quick study," he observes, leaning against the workbench behind me. "Most people take months to learn what you've picked up in two weeks."
I smile, concentrating on loosening the bolt exactly as he taught me. "What can I say? I have an excellent teacher."
The garage is quiet this morning, just the two of us. Marcus is out sick, and Diesel closed the shop to other customers to focus on my car. The past week since the tree lighting ceremony has been perfect—days spent at the garage learning mechanics, evenings at his cabin or Grandpa's place, nights tangled in each other's arms.
"There," I say with satisfaction as the bolt gives way. "One down, seven to go."
Diesel moves closer, his chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to inspect my work. "Perfect," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. "Just like you."
A shiver runs through me at the contact. Even after a week of passionate nights together, his touch still affects me like a live wire. "Careful, Casanova. If you keep distracting me, this engine will never get rebuilt."
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. "Would that be so terrible? Means you'd have to stay longer."
I turn in his arms, wiping my greasy hands on a shop rag before looping them around his neck. "Are you saying you want me to stick around?"
Something flickers in his eyes—hope mingled with hesitation. "Maybe I am."
My heart swells. We've been dancing around this topic since that first night together, both of us feeling the connection but afraid to label it or push too far too fast. "I want that too," I admit. "I'm falling for you, Diesel. Hard."
The smile that spreads across his face makes him look younger, more carefree than the grumpy mechanic I first met. He leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that starts soft but quickly intensifies. I press closer, my body molding to his, the familiar heat building between us.
"We should lock the front door," I whisper against his mouth. "Unless you want to give your customers an eyeful."
