Page 17 of Dirty Mechanic

“These’ll work until I fetch your suitcase.” I hand them over.

Her fingers brush mine.

The air shifts.

I step back. If I don’t, I’ll yank that towel off and finish what we began years ago.

“You’re sleeping in my room. I’ll take the couch."

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“What about Blake’s old room?” she offers, hope flickering in her voice.

“Converted to storage.”

“And the RV?” She points to the backyard where the old camper has become a decorative fixture.

“I promise no spiders in my room. The RV needs a scrub."

She frowns, lips parting, then exhales and says, “Fine. But just for tonight.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. "Just for tonight."

If I have it my way, she’ll stay here forever.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, on your right.”

She looks back over her shoulder. “I remember.”

Of course, she does.

Her footsteps disappear up the stairs, and I crack my neck.

Ten minutes later, the house smells like her. The clean scent of my soap mixes with the warmth of her skin. I’m pacing the living room, trying not to picture her in my bed. Trying not to imagine that towel slipping to the floor, or the curve of her hips, or the little green panties with pink apple blossoms I know she has packed in her suitcase.

She once called them her good-luck panties. I made sure to test them thoroughly, and decided she was right.

I exhale hard and head for the RV. I tell myself I’m cleaning. That’s a damn lie. I’m running.

A memory hits me when I step inside the rusty home on flat wheels: her laughter, her moans, her kisses showering my skin like I was the last man on earth and she was starving for touch. The way she gave me her virginity, so willingly.

I clean for an hour, or two.

A spider clings to the shower corner, but I leave it. Keeping a spider here feels like tempting fate, but I need her in the house—with me—and maybe the spider will make that happen.

Later, I end up in the hammock between the apple trees. My loyal shadows, Bear and Kara, curl at my feet. I stare at the stars and think about what the hell I’m doing.

She’s in my bed. She’s in my house. And all I want is to reach past the walls she’s rebuilt between us and remind her what it felt like to be mine—why she’ll forever be mine.

When the morning sun kicks me in the face, everything aches. My back. My neck. My pride.

I stumble inside and make coffee, hands working on autopilot. Annabelle likes it strong with one splash of cream.

Her footsteps pad down the stairs, and when she enters the kitchen, gravity loses its pull.

She’s in Misty’s sweatpants. And my shirt.

My shirt.