Page 11 of Crowbar

His hand flew to his face, scrubbing at a spot that wasn’t even the right side. I reached over and swiped my thumb across the smear of pink just below the corner of his mouth. His skin was soft. He went absolutely still under the contact, eyes locked on mine, and I could hear his pulse kick up from where I stood.

I slowly pulled my hand back.

“Strawberry,” I said, inspecting my thumb.

“Had one on break,” he murmured.

Gunner chose that moment to wake up and bark at a passing customer, shattering whatever had been building between us. Spencer startled, nearly fumbled the puppy, and recovered.

“Six o’clock,” I said, taking Gunner from his arms. She protested with a whine that bordered on theatrical. “I’ll text you the address.”

“I don’t—you don’t have my number.”

I pulled a pen from the cup by the register we’d migrated toward without me noticing and slid it across the counter. Spencer grabbed it and scrawled ten digits on the back of a receipt with handwriting so chaotic it looked like a doctor’s prescription.

“That’s a seven,” he said, pointing at something that could’ve been a seven or a lowercase F. “And that’s a three. I know they look the same. My handwriting is terrible.”

“I’ll figure it out.” I pocketed the receipt, paid for the pee pads, and settled Gunner back on my shoulder. She was already gnawing on my collar, her tiny teeth clicking against the metal snap.

Spencer stood behind the register, both hands flat on the counter, looking like someone had just told him he’d won something he hadn’t entered.

“Six o’clock,” he said.

“Six o’clock.”

“At Deluca’s Auto Repair.”

“At the garage.”

“With cupcakes.”

“If you want.”

“I want.” The words came out fast, then he blinked like he’d surprised himself. “The cupcakes. I want to bring the cupcakes. That’s what I meant.”

The toothpick shifted. I didn’t bother hiding the grin. “See you tonight, Indoors.”

I turned and headed away, Gunner perched on my shoulder like a furry parrot, and felt Spencer’s gaze follow me all the way out.

Chapter Four

Spencer

Deluca’s Auto Repair. I’d seen their tow truck around town before and occasionally a biker or two, but I’d never had a reason to look twice. Now I was pulling into the lot in my five-year-old sedan, which was doing its humble best next to a row of motorcycles. The passenger seat held three dozen strawberry cupcakes, a pan of banana bread, and two dozen blueberry muffins, the stack teetering dangerously sideways.

I’d gotten home after my shift, made sure Ken wasn’t lurking around, then executed a tactical extraction of baked goods and peeled out of the parking lot in under three minutes like I had committed a heist.

The garage held three bays. Two of the doors were down, but the third was open, revealing a concrete floor stained with oil. A fluorescent light buzzed inside, casting everything in that flat, industrial glow that made even healthy people look like they needed a transfusion.

No one was out front.

I sat in my car for a full thirty seconds, hands on the wheel, engine off, staring at the open bay like it might offer instructions. The cupcakes were sliding. The banana bread had already tried to make a break for the floorboard during a left turn on County Road 21, and I’d had to slam my arm across the passenger seat to catch the container, which had sent a bolt of pain through my left side so sharp I’d nearly screamed.

The arm was getting worse, not better. I’d been icing it, taking ibuprofen like candy, and sleeping on my right side with a pillow barricade that would’ve impressed a military strategist.

Nothing helped. Every time I lifted something heavier than a coffee mug, the ache flared hot and deep, radiating from the spot where Ken’s fingers had dug in and wrenched.

I should’ve gone to urgent care. I knew that. But my budget said I was broke.