“You told me not to be late.” She shrugs, all sunshine and enthusiasm. “I don’t want to break the rules. Not the important ones.”
She has no idea how close she is to breaking every rule I’ve ever made.
I clear my throat. “Before we start… I’ve got something.”
Her eyebrows lift. “For me?”
“For the car,” I correct too quickly. Then add, “Mostly.”
I take a small box from the workbench. She watches me like I’m unwrapping a secret.
“It’s nothing big,” I mutter. “Just… figured it was time she had a proper heart again.”
I open the box. Inside is a polished shift knob. Classic style. Solid in the hand. Custom-engraved in script that readsMustang Sally.
Her breath catches. It’s a soft, beautiful sound that knocks something loose inside me.
“Nolan…” she whispers, fingertips hovering like she’s afraid to touch.
“I found an old photo of the dash,” I admit. “The handwriting on the glove compartment decal was your grandpa’s. I copied it.”
She lifts the knob with both hands like it’s made of glass.Like it’s sacred. “You… you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I say gruffly. “But I wanted to.”
Her eyes shine with tears and something fiercer.Grief and gratitude and a visceral emotion I can’t quite name.
Her lower lip trembles. “Thank you.”
“It belongs to you.” I step closer, drawn like iron filings to a magnet.
She looks up, straight into me, and the connection hits likea spark to gasoline.
Her fingers are still curled around the shift knob, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it’s my heart she’s holding.
I take another step, close enough to see the deeper blue flecks in her eyes, the flush blooming on her cheeks. Close enough to touch, if I had any business doing so. If I could trust myself to stop.
Her breath hitches.
She’s going to kiss me.
Or I’m going to kiss her.
Or maybe we’ll just stand here suspended in this impossible tension that feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever known.
My phone buzzes loudly on the bench behind me.
The spell breaks.
She blinks. I step back. The moment evaporates like heat off asphalt.
I mutter a curse under my breath. “Need to get that.”
“Of course.” She swallows, gaze flickering to the ground. “I should, uh… go set up the camera.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns and walks toward her gear, ponytail swaying with every step like a countdown I already regret starting.
I watch her go, shift knob still clutched in her hands, and wonder how the hell a man’s supposed to survive wanting someone like that—completely, and still pretending he doesn’t.
