Page 48 of Cinderella and the Daddy

He looks at me. Then he nods, understanding exactly what I need even if I can't articulate it myself.

The garage is my sanctuary, my church of chrome and steel, where the world makes sense in terms of compression ratios and torque specifications.

He opens his desk drawer and stands.

He’s not wearing his usual suit. It’s like he’s dressed for battle. That’s just a little terrifying. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a black t-shirt. He looks like he could be special forces.

“I’ll help,” he says.

I hope he doesn’t think we’re fucking against his car again. No way. Not with the level of security roaming around this place.

I pop the Mustang's hood and gesture for him to start it up. The sound is like music to my soul.

I close my eyes and listen.

Luka moves to stand beside me. His arm brushes against mine. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones, but I swear I can smell him from a mile away. It’s a good smell. The kind of scent that triggers a rush of hormones.

Fuck.

Between the purring engine and his scent, I could practically orgasm right then.

I shake it off.

No sex in the garage.

"Hand me the timing light," I say without looking up.

A few seconds later, his fingers brush mine for just a second.

"You don't have to help," I tell him, but there's no conviction in the words.

"Maybe I want to."

For the next hour, we work in companionable silence. He hands me tools without being asked, holds parts steady while I make adjustments, and listens when I explain what I'm doing and why. There's something almost meditative about it.

I know it’s doing wonders for my mood.

"Try it now," I say finally, wiping grease from my hands with an old rag.

He slides into the driver's seat and turns the key. The engine catches immediately, settling into a smooth, powerful idle that sends vibrations through the concrete floor. The sound is perfect—no more rough spots, no hesitation, just pure mechanical harmony.

Hot damn.

That’s good.

I’m good.

He revs the engine once, listening to the way it responds, feeling the power transfer through the chassis. When he looks at me, there's something like wonder in his expression.

"I didn’t even realize it was missing,” he says after he cuts the engine.

I shrug. “You’re not supposed to. I am. I’m a mechanic.”

He looks me up and down. I’m in another pair of yoga pants and a tank.

I know what he’s thinking. I don’t look like the typical mechanic. If I were back in the Tremaine garage, Drew would be giving me shit for my outfit.

But I’m not there. I’m here. With Luka. I’mwithLuka.