Chapter 2
Sally
I dial the number before I can overthink it. It goes to voicemail.
“H-hi! My name is Sally,” I stammer after the beep. “I, uh, have a restoration project I want to document for my YouTube channel. A 1967 Shelby Mustang—” My voice cracks. Great. “George Lucas gave me your name, and I was hoping to maybe set up some evening work hours? I can pay on a budget, but this car is…” I swallow. “She means everything to me.”
I leave my number and hang up before I start rambling about ghosts.
Well. I tried. Now what?
Pouting won’t make the engine turn over. Neither will begging the universe or uploading raw footage of me crying into a greasy handkerchief for twelve subscribers named things likecarbutt69.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. My heart catapults into my throat.
I answer. “Hello?” Too chipper. I dial it back. “Uh… hi?”
“Nolan West. I got your message,” a deep voice rumbles through the line. Jesus, he sounds like heeats lug nuts for breakfast.
“Oh, hi. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. As I said?—”
“I can look at it,” he cuts across me with pure, unfriendly efficiency. “Tonight, at seven. Be here by then if you want the extra hours.”
7 PM.
Tonight.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. Thank you.” I try to sound confident rather than like a woman begging a stranger for help to rebuild a car’s entire identity.
He doesn’t respond.
The moment of silence that follows is so thick that I consider refreshing my phone service.
Then:
“Don’t be late.”
He hangs up.
Well. That was… encouraging.
The garage is lit up like a lighthouse when I pull up at 7 PM sharp with the Mustang on a rented trailer behind my Jeep. Evening air bites at my skin, crisp and clean, while streaks of pink still cling to the darkening sky. The scent of warmed asphalt andcooling metal clings to the dusk. Only one other vehicle sits in the lot—a hulking pickup parked near the shop doors.
I steel myself, picturing metal armor surrounding me. I am shiny and impervious and?—
The shop door swings open before I reach it.
He fills the frame.
My Popeye vision evaporates faster than Bluto spotting a tin of spinach in a fistfight.
Tall, dark hair, messy curls shoved back hastily. Blue T-shirt streaked with engine oil like war paint. Arms—God, the arms—veins and muscle that speak fluent horsepower. He glistens faintly in the overhead light, a mix of sweat and grease and something inherently male that tightens something low in my belly.
He assesses me like he’s taking apart an engine. “Sally?”
“That’s me,” I squeak.Kill me now.
“Car’s on the trailer?” He walks past me without waiting for a reply. He moves like someone who knows his body takes up space—purposeful, unbothered, all raw heat and cool indifference.
