Page 5 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. That’s important.

Because this isn’t a date. This is a recruitment. A seduction.

A very practical, high-stakes operation that will eventually end with him in my bunker, possibly in my bed, and definitely not fixing brakes for the ungrateful general public anymore.

So I go with jeans. Fitted, flattering, good pocket coverage. No rips because I’m not a teenager. A solid, no-nonsense kind of jean that says I’m grounded, but still down to ride out the end of the world with a man who knows how to work a socket wrench.

For the top, I try on three different shirts before I settle on the blue one. It’s soft. Drapes just right. Not a plain t-shirt but not too blousey, either. Shows a little collarbone. Suggests curves. Suggests I might make muffins from scratch. Suggests I know how to keep a generator running and also look hot doing it.

Dean’s going to love it.

I keep my makeup minimal, natural, like I didn’t spend twenty-five minutes getting my eyeliner wing to match the exact angle of my cheekbones. Hair half-up, soft and a little tousled like I might have just woken up that pretty.

I even spritz on a bit of cologne.

Not perfume. Cologne.

The same kind Evan wears.

Because yes, I bought a bottle for myself. And yes, I think smelling a little like his sexy bunker roommate will activate something in this man’s brain. Competition, curiosity, possibly mild panic.

I finish the look with boots. Sturdy but cute. I need him to believe I know my way around a garage without looking like I’m cosplaying as Rosie the Riveter.

On my way out, I glance through the security cam footage from Evan’s room.

He’s asleep again.

He sleeps a lot now.

I like that. He deserves it.

Plus, he looked so sweet last night, after our kiss. All tucked up under the blanket, completely un-cuffed and still not trying to run.

Progress.

I tell myself I’m not giddy as I lock the bunker behind me. I tell myself this is just the next logical step in the plan. One man down. Four to go.

The mechanic, his name is Dean Mercer, but I just call him Dean in my notebook, is always up early. And he always gets to the shop about an hour before it opens.

I’ve checked.

Multiple times.

In different disguises.

Once, I wore glasses and a hoodie and pretended to be on a phone call. Another time I carried a baby stroller with a realistic baby doll inside, because nobody ever questions a frazzled mom with a travel mug and dead eyes. The point is, I’ve done my research.

And I know three things for sure.

One: Dean is good with his hands.

Two: He’s kind to animals and old ladies, but a total dick to people who condescend to him about his work.

Three: He always, always, leaves the back door unlocked.

That’ll leave me a way in. I need him to come with me. No appointment. No paper trail. Nothing that could make someone come looking too hard.

I can’t take him from his apartment because it’s an apartment, and he has nosy neighbors who looked a little too closely the few times I followed him home.

Especially Miss James two doors down, who smiled at me like she knew something while standing in her doorway in that tired fuzzy robe and those sad little house shoes, like a puff of wind could snap her ankles.

She watches Dean’s place like it’s her part-time job. Almost as closely as the woman three doors down, who always finds a reason to take her trash out when Dean gets home, like maybe if she stands just right in the hall, he’ll bend her over it.

I don’t blame her.

But he’s mine.

She doesn’t have a plan for the end of the world. I do.

I park a few blocks away, same as with Evan. Never in front. Never where someone could pull footage. Even though the flu’s spreading and fewer people are out and about, I don’t take chances. Not with the important things.

It’s still early. The sky is pale and gray, the air sharp enough to bite.

Perfect bunker weather.

I walk the rest of the way, my steps soft and deliberate, not because I’m sneaking, God, no, but because I like the drama.

The quiet click of my boots.

The slow build.

The idea that when he turns around, when he sees me there, he’s going to feel it in his spine. That something is happening.

I reach the alley behind the shop and slide my fingers over the worn handle of the back door.

I don’t knock.

Why would I knock?

He leaves the back door unlocked. That’s basically an invitation.

Deep breath.

Smile set.

Let the games begin.

I push it open and step inside.

The air inside is warm and thick, heavy with the smell of oil, metal, grease, and man. Real man. Not the curated cologne kind, not the fake woodsy vibe of men who hike once a year and act like they survived Everest.

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.

Because this man?

This man is going to look so good in bunker lighting.

His gaze drags up my body again, like he’s reading a menu, and I swear to God I feel it under my skin, like he’s got some kind of x-ray vision calibrated specifically to detect dirty thoughts and ruined panties.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

And fuck me, the voice.

Rough. Sleep-rumpled. A little gravel, a little growl, like he hasn’t had his coffee yet and I’m the substitute.

My thighs press together instinctively, because of course they do.

That voice could narrate a home repair video and I’d still end up naked by the time he hits step three.

I blink, putting on my best wide-eyed, sweet-girl face. “Hi! I hope it’s okay I just came in. The door was open.”

He wipes his hands on a rag and stands. Full height. Full weight. And full frontal assault on my ability to think with anything but my uterus.

Jesus.

His shirt is gray and snug and stained with grease and god-tier sweat marks. His arms are bare, tattooed, corded with muscle, and gleaming just a little where his skin catches the light.

He’s wiping his hands like he’s thinking about where else they could go.

I want to volunteer.

“I’ve got a generator,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m about to offer myself as payment. “It’s not turning over this morning and the fridge is acting up, and I know it’s early and you’re probably busy, but I really need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

Oh, don’t act surprised, baby. You left the door open. I walked through it. This is fate with a wrench in its back pocket.

“I’d pay extra,” I add quickly, because men love a bribe. “You’d only be there a few minutes. Probably not even worth pulling out your tools.”

Liar. I want him to pull out everything.

Dean studies me for a second, like he’s checking for warning signs.

Buddy, they’re all here. Flashing red. Sirens. The whole nine yards.

But I look soft enough. Just a woman in a nice shirt and jeans, with damp hair and a problem to solve.

He cracks a small grin. Smug. Crooked. Shameless. “Where’s the place?” he asks.

Hook. Line. Me, flopping on the floor.

I hand him a card with my address. “Just outside of town. You wouldn’t have to fight traffic or anything. First driveway after the old mill.”

He tucks the card into his back pocket, and I swear my pupils dilate watching his fingers disappear behind that absolutely perfect ass.

I wonder if he’d let me bite it later.

“I’ll cancel my eight o’clock,” he says, and shrugs like it’s nothing. “Be there in twenty?”

I beam like a girl who didn’t just orchestrate an entire fake emergency to lure a man into her underground sex-bunker.

“That would be amazing,” I say, voice all honey. “Thank you so much, Dean.”

He gives me one last look, eyes flicking to my lips and back again, then grabs his coffee from the workbench and downs the last of it.

“Can’t leave a damsel in distress,” he says.

Oh, honey. You have no idea.

I wave, back away, nearly bump into a tire, and make myself walk out of the shop like I’m not seconds from spontaneously combusting from the sheer sexual menace standing in a puddle of grease behind me.

As soon as I hit the car?

I shriek into the steering wheel.

He’s coming. He’s coming. And if all goes according to plan?

So am I.