Me: Nothing. It’s fine. Everything’s great. Totally normal.
Bella: Liar.
Yep.
I drop the phone face down. My heart is thudding way too hard. The shop’s AC decides to start blowing straight at my neck,which is rude because I’m already dealing with enough chills as-is.
Something is building. I feel it every time Blade walks by. Every time his eyes flick my way before he pretends they didn’t. Every time his voice drops low when he asks a question that could easily be yelled from the floor.
We are a match and gasoline.
Pretending we aren’t isn’t working.
I take a long sip of my sad, cold coffee and straighten the paperwork in front of me like that will restore order to my chaotic soul.
No thinking about Blade and his hands and his voice and his everything.
No replaying that night like it’s happening in slow motion. No imagining what happens when the tension finally snaps and he stops pretending he doesn’t want me too. Because if he ever bites? I’m going to let him. And I think he knows it.
The shop is way too quiet. Everyone clocked out an hour ago, engines powered down, doors rolled shut. The only sounds left are the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clink of metal as I reorganize the inventory shelves like the overachiever Mason hired me to be.
I stretch up to reach a box on the highest shelf. I am five feet tall, which is pure comedy in a place designed for men who can bench-press a transmission. My fingers just graze the edge.
“Come on,” I mutter, rocking onto my toes.
The box tips. Straight toward my face.
It slams into my forehead and then crashes to the floor, taking half a dozen smaller parts with it. Pain explodes above my temple. I curse under my breath, clutching my head as I sink to a crouch.
Yep. I’m definitely bleeding. I blink spots out of my vision, trying to steady myself, when heavy boots thunder across the concrete.
Then he’s there. Blade.
He must’ve still been here. In the back. Avoiding me like usual. Except now he looks like he just sprinted through war to get to me.
“What happened?” His voice is low and sharp, his eyes scanning the mess like he’s ready to kill whatever hurt me.
“A box?” I offer weakly. “It jumped me.”
Not my best joke. I’m dizzy.
His jaw works, muscle ticking like he’s restraining three emotions at once. He crouches in front of me, gloved hands gentle but firm as he checks my face. “You’re bleeding,” he mutters.
“No kidding.”
He shoots me a look. Not amused. Before I can argue, Blade scoops me up. One arm under my legs, the other around my back. I gasp and cling to his shoulders, because holy shit he is strong.
“Blade, I can walk,” I protest, cheeks on fire.
“Don’t care.” He holds me tighter. “You’re hurt.”
He carries me over to one of the workbenches and sits me on the edge like I’m breakable. Then he strides to the first aid cabinet, grabs a kit, and returns with that intense focus he usually reserves for engines and bloodshed.
He stands between my knees as he opens the kit, fingers brushing my skin as he tilts my chin to get a better look. I swear the air thickens. My pulse goes stupid.
“This is gonna sting,” he says quietly.
“It already stings.”
