He looks at the Mustang, then at me. “Yeah. I can help.”
The relief hits so hard it’s stupid. Tears threaten, but I blink them back aggressively.
Nolan’s gaze softens a flicker. “We start with diagnostics. Then see how much of the original we can save.”
My chest expands like someone installed a turbocharger in my lungs.
He hands me a set of gloves. “If you’re gonna be here, you work.”
I grin. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes darken atsirin a way that is entirely too distracting.
Focus, Sally. The car. The dream. Not the man built like sin and sexual temptation.
I pull on the gloves. “Where do we start?”
He steps close enough that I smell him—soap and gasoline and a hint of cedar. Jeez, who knew the smell of gasoline could be so sexy? He should bottle it and call itCombustion, with a warning label that says,May Cause Reckless Attraction.
His voice drops to a rumble. “Pop the hood.”
With a snap of metal and a creak of hinges, the Mustang’s heart is laid bare.
Nolan studies the engine, hands braced on the chassis. “She’s a beauty,” he mutters.
“She’s mine,” I whisper, surprising myself with the fierceness in it.
He glances at me. That spark hits me again—the kind that lights wicked things in secret places.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can tell.”
And for the first time all day… something turns over in the region of my heart.
Something catches fire.
Not the engine.
Not yet.
But me.
Oh, shit.
Chapter 3
Nolan
She smells like hope.
Hope.Pure and reckless.
I hate it because hope is how you get hurt. Hope is how you wind up believing in things that always, always let you down.
But there she is anyway, standing next to a car that should’ve been scrapped or sold, smiling at me like I’m not already a mile in over my head. She touches the fender as if she’s touching someone she lost.
I’ve seen that look before—grief rebuilt into determination.
Sally.
