“Took you long enough,” I tease, though the truth is my chest loosens the second he’s in full view.
He stops in front of me, glancing at the paper in my hand. “All good?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was…normal. Surprisingly normal.”
“Normal?” He raises a brow. “That’s not the word I’d use for a junkyard meeting with a guy who signed off on a suspicious death.” His jaw tics. “What’d he show you?”
I hand him the slip.
“Guy in a red pickup,” I say. “Fresh front-end damage that might match the color of potential paint transfer on Zoe’s bumper.”
Anton exhales a low, thoughtful breath. “Could be something.”
“Or nothing,” I counter.
“Or nothing,” he echoes.
I nod, feeling that subtle, quiet click of being on the same page. “I’ll have to find this guy somehow. I’m not sure how easy it will be with just facial recognition.”
“You’ll find him.” Anton folds the paper, presses it backinto my palm. “And if you decide to go knocking on that door,” he teases softly, “you’d better invite me to lurk again.”
My skin buzzes with electricity.
I try to play it cool. “You’re disturbingly good at lurking, you know. I can’t tell if I should be turned on or terrified.”
I shouldn’t be flirting. But damn, it feels right.
Apparently, he agrees. “Turned on.”
Heat punches low in my body. My fingers drift to my hair, smoothing curls that don’t need smoothing.
He watches every flicker of my composure slipping.
Does this man know what he’s doing to me? I shouldn’t feel like this with a friend. Maybe I need to come clean about that.
But not now.You’re here to work.
I lift the slip of paper. “Okay,” I say, more certain now. “I have two hours before clocking off to surf the internet and see if I can find out who the mystery man is.”
Anton nods decisively.
The wind cuts between us, lifting a strand of my curls, and he reaches out without thinking—tucking it gently behind my ear. The touch is small. Barely anything.
But it hits deep.
“I’d better go,” I murmur, lifting the paper again.
Anton’s eyes stay on mine a moment longer than necessary. “Text me if you need to go anywhere.”
The way Anton speaks to me—with some kind of respect I’ve never received before. He doesn’t order. He doesn’t challenge.
He promises partnership.
“I will,” I say.
My chest warms at the words—not because I need him hovering but because standing here in this graveyard ofmetal, it feels good to have someone who cares whether I walk back out.
“Thanks for being here,” I say quietly.
