“You drove this all the way here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He looked at me. “That’s reckless.”
“It worked.”
“Until now.”
I crossed my arms. “Can you fix it?”
He looked at me long enough to make me wish I hadn’t asked. His face was unreadable in that infuriating biker way, all scar, stubble, and emotional lockdown.
Then he said, “Probably.”
The word sat there between us, heavy and annoying, because now I needed him.
And he knew it.
That was the worst part.
I lifted my chin. “What’s it cost?”
One dark brow rose. “You charging?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth again, slower this time, intentional enough to heat the air between us. When it came back up, there was something sharper there. Something hotter.
“Depends.”
My pulse kicked. Not fear. Not exactly. More like my body had received information from a department I had specifically requested remain closed.
I took a step back.
Space.
Needed it.
Bandit hissed again, apparently serving as my externalized common sense.
Mason shut the hood. “You’ve got twenty minutes before Regan wakes up and realizes you’re trying to sneak out.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
He looked at the packed truck, the cat, the dawn, then me.
“Right.”
The desert wind kicked up, bending the cactus near the fence and carrying dust, cold, and the mineral scent of morning. Behind Mason, the sun cracked over the mountains. Gold caught the auburn in his hair, the scar near his jaw, the hard line of his cheek. It made him look rougher. Meaner. Beautiful in the dangerous, deeply inconvenient kind of way.
I hated that too.
Mason was under my hood for seven minutes before he started swearing. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just low, steady, and creative enough that even Bandit stopped screaming long enough to listen. I sat behind the wheel with my arms crossed, freezing my ass off in the driver’s seat while the desert slowly turned gold around us.
“Pump it twice,” Mason called.
I pressed the gas pedal twice.
“Again.”
