It's going to be a long day.
By mid-morning, I've cataloged every time Holt's looked at me. Not glanced—looked. The kind of looking that makes my skin feel too tight and my brain go static-fuzzy. Four times. Four distinct, prolonged moments of him watching me.
The shop is sweltering. Even with all three floor fans running, it's just hot air moving in lazy circles, doing absolutely nothing except making the tools too hot to touch without wincing. I'm overheating in my button-up overshirt, sweat pooling at the small of my back.
I pull it off without thinking, down to just my white tank top.
The tank top that is—I realize as fabric settles against damp skin—way tighter than I remembered. Like painted-on tight. Like 'you can definitely see my bra through this' tight. Likemaybe I should've kept the button-up on but it's too late now because—
I turn to hang the shirt on my chair and catch Holt staring.
Not glancing. Full-on staring at my chest like he's never seen it before, wrench frozen in his hand, shoulders gone rigid in a way that has nothing to do with the carburetor he's supposed to be fixing.
Our eyes meet. He doesn't look away. Doesn't even pretend he wasn't just openly checking me out.
The air gets thick. My pulse kicks up. Heat that has nothing to do with the temperature floods through me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." But his voice is rough and his eyes drag down slowly, before he turns back to the engine he's working on.
I catch Finn grinning from across the shop and flip him off when Holt's not looking.
The tank top feels like a second skin for the next hour. Every time I move, I'm aware of it. Aware of Holt tracking me with his eyes. Aware of the way his shoulders tense when I stretch to reach something on a high shelf, the way his knuckles go white around whatever tool he's holding.
"You're staring again," I say without looking at him.
"Yeah." No apology. No excuse.
I turn around. He's leaning against his workbench, arms crossed, just—looking at me. Open about it now. Unapologetic.
"That's not creepy at all," I say, but my voice comes out breathless.
"You want me to stop?"
Do I? I should. I should absolutely want him to stop looking at me like that, like he's thinking about things that would make me forget how to form words.
"I didn't say that."
His mouth curves. "Didn't think so."
Finn walks past whistling and I want to murder him.
The tension hums under my skin for the rest of the morning. Every time Holt passes behind me, I feel it—that awareness that prickles across my shoulders, makes me hyperconscious of every breath.
Just after lunch, I'm carrying a stack of invoices, walking backward while arguing with Finn about his complete lack of organizational skills.
"I'm just saying, if you labeled literally anything—"
My foot catches on absolutely nothing. My own feet. Because I'm that graceful.
I stumble forward, invoices flying everywhere like the world's saddest confetti, and I'm about to eat concrete—
Holt moves fast. One second I'm going down, the next his hands are on my waist, catching me, pulling me back against his chest.
I'm pressed right up against him. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing bare skin where my tank top rode up. I can feel his heart pounding as hard as mine.
"Careful," he says, voice low.
