The ceiling above me is the same one I've been waking up to for a week.
Mom knows I'm here. The how of it nags at me—her "sources," her casual knowledge of things she shouldn't know. But I push it aside for now. Whatever her connections are, they don't change my decision.
I'm staying. Here. With Zeus.
Chapter 12
London
I push through the door of Kings Auto Shop, a brown paper bag clutched in one hand and two bottles of iced tea in the other.
Zeus is bent over the exposed engine of a custom Harley, his back to me, a wrench in his grip. His t-shirt is streaked with grease, pulled tight across his shoulders as he works. Music plays from a speaker on the workbench—classic rock, a heavy guitar riff.
I watch him for a moment. The way his hands move, the way his body shifts with easy confidence. This is his domain. Here, surrounded by chrome and steel and half-finished builds, the tension he carries everywhere else drains out of him.
"You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna bring me that food?"
I jump. He hasn't turned around.
"How did you know I was here?"
He straightens, tossing the wrench onto the workbench, and faces me. A grin spreads across his face—slow, crooked, devastating. "Heard you breathing."
"That's creepy."
"That's awareness." He crosses the distance between us in three strides, hooks an arm around my waist, and hauls me against him. His mouth finds mine before I can protest about the grease.
His free hand cups the back of my head, tilting me where he wants me, and I melt into his kiss the way I've melted into every kiss the past couple of weeks.
“I brought you lunch," I mumble against his lips.
"I see that." He doesn't let go. His thumb strokes the strip of bare skin between my shirt and jeans. "What'd you bring me?"
"Turkey club. Chips. Iced tea."
"Perfect." Another kiss—harder, deeper—before he releases me and takes the bag.
He drops onto a rolling stool and pulls me onto his lap sideways, one arm banding my waist while the other unwraps the sandwich. I loop my arms around his neck and look around the shop.
Three bikes are in various stages of transformation. The one he was working on is stripped down to its skeleton—frame and engine exposed, waiting to be reborn.
"What's that one going to be?" I nod toward it.
"Custom chopper. Extended forks, lowered seat, hand-stitched leather." He takes a huge bite of his sandwich and talks around it. "Client wants matte black with gold pinstriping."
"Sounds gorgeous."
"It will be." He presses his greasy lips to my temple, and I swat at him, laughing.
"You're getting me filthy!”
“I like you filthy.” His eyes gleam, possessive and playful all at once.
I steal a chip from his bag. "I'm going shopping with the girls this afternoon. Rowan wants to hit up a vintage store."
"Take my card." He shifts, reaching for his back pocket without dislodging me from his lap.
"I have some money?—"
