“I’ll bring her back to life, no matter what,” she states determinedly, leaning down to grab a flashlight, a wrench, and a hose.
“Can I help?” I ask although I know the answer already.I know shit about cars.
“I don’t know, can you?” she challenges, raising an eyebrow. She then stands on her toes to lean over the hood, placing the hose on top of the engine while securing the flashlight between her teeth, her hands occupied with removing the damaged hose.
“Wait, let me,” I murmur, stepping up to her and gently taking the flashlight. Our eyes lock briefly as I remove it from her mouth. Her mouth lingers open for a second longer than necessary, and I can’t shake the visions coming to me—how she’s kneeling in front of me with that pretty mouth open like this, waiting for me to fill it with my cock.
Fuck.
Sporting a boner right now wouldn’t be the best way to convey my genuine intentions of helping her out, so I try to get back my focus. Her gaze remains locked with mine, so I clear my throat and offer, “I think I can manage to hold a flashlight.”
“If you say so,” she mutters, finally diverting her attention back to the hoses. “Here, can you give me some light… yes, perfect.”
I hold the flashlight steady, directing a light beam onto her workspace. She works swiftly and efficiently, and I admire her in action. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and watching her work is nothing short of impressive. I stand beside her like an idiot, only able to hold the flashlight and watch in awe.
Sloan’s brows furrow in concentration as she works.
She’s so damned beautiful.
Her cheekbones, the subtle ridge of her nose, her full lashes—I find myself fixating on her delicate features. A few strands of hair she left out of the braid to frame her face fall in front of her eyes, and despite her attempts to huff them out of the way, they persistently return. Unable to resist, I gently push them behind her ear.
She gazes at me, her eyes searching my face, but when I remain silent, she simply offers a quiet “thanks” and returns to her task.
Finally, she starts tightening the new hose with a wrench. “Done. Now we can get your blood pumping again, Van-essa.”
“Van-essa?” I try my best not to laugh, but it’s just too adorable.
Why on earth would she call this pile of rust something so feminine?
“It’s her name.” She wipes her grimy hands on a rag she had slung over her shoulder when she got the tools.
“This huge orange monster doesn’t look anything like a Van-essa. It’s more like a Van-ce or a Dono-van, maybe Sully-van,” I jest.
Sloan looks at me with wide eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter, catching me off guard. I join in, and she can’t seem to stop, even letting out a little snort.
Adorable.
I’ve never witnessed anything as beautiful as Sloan Wilson caught in a fit of laughter.
“Sully-van?” she repeats through chuckles. “Fuck.”
Struggling to catch her breath, she places her hand on her belly, still cackling.
“Why Van-essa?” I inquire when her laughter subsides.
“I don’t know. It was my nan’s van, and she gave her the name.” She shrugs, but there is more to it, so I ask.
“Your nan…” Your nan you told us about, your nan who died?
Perfect icebreaker.
“She was the one who raised me. It was always the two of us,” Sloan responds, and when she mentions her grandmother, there’s a hint of sadness in her voice. “She had the gift too. Taught me all about it.”
The wordgiftis uttered with such disdain it makes me frown. Does she truly hate what she can do?
Or did people make her hate it?
“Tell me about her,” I gently push. Asking about the gift might close the doors I’ve finally managed to open between us again. It’s the more important question, but this topic is safer for now.
