“My god,” Mac groans from under the hood. “Let it go, man.”
“No,” I say, swinging my screwdriver to point it at him.
But he walks over to the bench, grabs a different wrench, and bats the screwdriver away.
Fucker.
“Who’s sweater guy?” Caz asks again, looking far too fucking eager for my liking.
I consider giving him shit for it, but I take it easy on him and just shrug. “I don’t know.”
His brow furrows as his eyes flick to Mac, so quick I almost don’t catch it. But the kid learns quickly, and he’s smart enough to keep his gaze on me.
Mac snickers and ducks back under the hood.
“You don’t know his name?” Caz asks carefully.
I shake my head as I push the head of the screwdriver into the pad of my thumb. Pain flares, and I smile, thinking of the way sweater guy chased that same burn like it meant something.
When I look up at Caz again, he’s watching me with a cocked eyebrow.
I shift in my chair. “He’s a professor. Teaches quantum mechanics at UNB.”
Caz lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“So out of your league,” Mac mutters. “No wonder he didn’t give you his name.”
“I never asked for it, fucker, so shut your fucking mouth,” I growl, turning to launch the screwdriver at Mac, successfully hitting him right in the ass with the pointy end.
“Fuck!” He whirls around and glares at me. “You fucking psychopath.”
“Give me my screwdriver back,” I say, holding out a hand, palm up.
“Fuck no,” he grumbles, turning back to the engine.
I look at Caz and nod my head towards the screwdriver on the floor beside Mac.
He hesitates for half a second, then gets up and fetches me my screwdriver.
He’s a good kid.
He just needs to pick a better tree.
“So…” he says thoughtfully, settling back on the stool, “he wore a sweater?”
I nod, blood immediately rushing south at the memory of that navy blue cable-knit, and the way it hugged his shoulders like they were a well-kept secret. Then the way he peeled it off like he was purposefully signalling for me to ruin him. “Did he ever.”
“If you know he’s a professor at UNB, and you know what he teaches, you could just look him up,” Caz suggests with a shrug.
I’ve thought of that.
But that’s too easy.
The way he looked at me before he left, with just a flicker of hesitation, and something dark and restless swimming in those deep blue eyes… that wasn’t nothing. That was an invitation and a challenge. Like he was leaving a match lit in a trail of gasoline, daring me to follow the burn.
He wants to be found.
And Iknowwhen a man wants to be chased.
