Page 24

Dean Mercer smells like work. Like torque wrenches and hot rubber and that exact moment a cigarette gets stubbed out in a puddle of sweat. If I could bottle it, I’d spritz it on my pillow and never sleep alone again.

The shop is quiet except for the low hum of classic rock playing from an old radio and the occasional clang of metal on metal. It echoes off the concrete floors, bounces between tool racks and rolling jacks, and vibrates somewhere low in my pelvis.

It’s still dim this early, a few of the overhead fluorescents flickering half-heartedly to life. I follow the noise, boots silent on the floor, jeans hugging just right, the nice shirt catching the occasional gleam of light. I feel good. Sharp. Set. Like a bear trap with lip gloss.

And there he is.

Half under the car. Back on a creeper, just a pair of grease-smudged jeans and big boots sticking out. Only his lower half visible. And God help me, it’s the good half.

Strong thighs, stretched denim, worn belt, and a bulge that makes me momentarily reconsider my entire plan.

I mean. I knew he was built. I’ve seen him. I’ve got three months of photos in my safe and a laminated schedule in my desk drawer and once I definitely sketched him from memory shirtless just to see if I could.

I could.

But seeing him like this?

Gritty, focused, completely unaware I’m standing here literally salivating over the way his hips shift slightly as he reaches for something under the car?

My nipples go hard like they owe him money.

And oh yeah, there’s that telltale wet heat low in my belly, coiling like my body’s saying,Ma’am. Please. Sit on his face.

Focus, Maple.

This is not the time for horny brain. This is the time for opportunistic abduction brain.

But still. I give myself one more second to stare. Just one.

His hand slides out, reaching blind to the side, fingers brushing over a wrench like he’s done it a thousand times. Fast hands. Skilled hands. Hands that could probably unhook a bra with a glance and a smart-ass comment.

I’m suddenly not sure if I’m here to kidnap him or get absolutely manhandled.

Jesus.

I clear my throat.

Soft, polite, just enough to let him know I’m here without sounding like I’m gasping for air. Which I sort of am.

There’s a pause. Then the low, slick roll of the creeper wheels as he slides out from under the car like a fucking movie scene made just for me.

And there he is.

Dean Mercer.

Dirty blond hair tousled like he fought a windstorm and won. A grease smear across one cheekbone. Hazel eyes sharp and curious, locking onto mine like a heat-seeking missile.

And those hands. Big. Calloused. Black smudges on every finger. Veins like ropes under his skin.

He rakes his eyes over me, slow, and shameless, and I feel it in my cervix. His gaze lingers on my chest, dips to my thighs, then back up like he’s mentally test-driving me with his hips already cocked back.

I can’t help it.

My lips part.

My whole body goes yes, that one.

And in that exact second, I remember why I wore the blue shirt.