But she didn’t walk away.
Neither did I.
For one hot, stupid second, we stood there beside her dead truck under the shade of the carport, my shirt off, her coffee cooling on the fender, the desert climbing toward noon, andall that anger between us sparking like dry brush waiting for a match.
Then Bandit screamed from the cab and ruined the moment.
Sienna closed her eyes. “I’m going to sedate him with bacon.”
Amber called from the porch, “Honestly, same.”
I grabbed my Henley from the truck seat and shook it out. Grease had gotten on it anyway. Figures.
Sienna looked at the shirt, then at my chest, then away.
Fast.
Too fast.
Still caught it.
I leaned closer as I passed her. “You staring?”
She didn’t miss a beat.
“I’m assessing structural integrity.”
I stopped inches from her shoulder.
Her breath caught. Quiet. Controlled. Barely there.
I lowered my voice. “And?”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“Unfortunately sound,” she said.
Damn.
This woman was going to be a problem.
Not because she was a risk.
Because every time she pushed, some ruined part of me wanted to push back until we both found out what broke first.
Sienna’s glare could’ve stripped paint off the truck.
I almost respected it.
Almost.
She stood beside Dolores with her arms folded, hair coming loose around her face, that damn white T-shirt still stuck to herin places I was trying not to inventory like a starving man at a buffet. Her eyes kept cutting from my bike to the truck bed, then to Bandit’s crate, then back to me like she was building a case for murder and just needed one more exhibit.
“No,” she said.
Regan sighed from the porch. “We already did this part.”
“No, we did the part where everyone decided my life for me while I was standing right here.” Sienna pointed toward the truck bed. “That is everything I own.”
