Hell of a name, considering the car she’s brought me.
Hell of a girl.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She looks like a fucking angel fell out of the sky. Her jeans hug hips I have no business thinking about. Not this soon. Not like this. The dip of her waist is a haven where a man’s hand could rest easy. Her generous breasts strainagainst her shirt. And that mouth—the way it curves when she smiles—soft, unguarded, and fucking lethal.
My body responds like a traitor. Heat pools in my groin, and pressure builds fast behind my zipper. I grit my teeth, angle my body away, and pretend I’m not seconds from losing every bit of the professional distance I wear like armor.
I force my attention back to the Mustang’s engine bay because that’s something I understand. Metal. Mechanisms. Things that break and can be fixed.
People aren’t like that. People break and stay broken.
“Fuel system first,” I say, grabbing a flashlight. “She’s been sitting for years. Bad gas turns to varnish. Lines gum up. Pump rusts.”
Sally gasps as if I said the wordrustabout her favorite pet. “Is that… bad?”
My mouth twitches with a reluctant smile. “It’s not ideal.”
She visibly steels herself. “Okay. We can handle not ideal.”
Who’s “we”?
She keeps saying it like she’s part of the equation. Which… maybe she is.
Damn it.
I jerk my chin toward the tool cart. “Socket set. Half-inch drive.”
She stares at me like I just spoke ancient tongues. “The… silver box?”
At least she’s not pretending to know. I hate pretenders.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Silver box.”
She lights up like she just passed the bar exam. “I can do silver box.”
Why does that simple sentence make something warm bloom in my chest?
She brings it over, and I set to work. Muscle memory takes over. The tools are like extensions of my hands as I loosen clamps, pull lines, and valuate.
Her camera sits on a tripod as if it’s waiting for attention.
“So, you film this stuff?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence so I don’t think too hard about the girl breathing beside me. The way she smells. The heat of her body close to mine.
“I’m trying.” She pulls her hair out of her face, leaving a streak of grease across her forehead.
She doesn’t notice. I do.I want to cup her face and savor the softness of her skin as I swipe it away with my thumb.
Get a fucking grip, West.
“…and my subscribers like restoration videos,” Sally is saying. “There’s something… hopeful about a comeback story.”
Her eyes soften as she glances at the Mustang like she sees her grandpa in the dull metal.
She steps closer. “You think she can be a comeback story?”
I know all about comeback stories. Mine didn’t take. But something tightens in my gut as I meet her gaze. “She already is.”
The air shifts. Becomes heavy. Charged.Like the moment before a lightning strike.
