Page 18 of Dirty Mechanic

It hangs off her like sin and softness—the fantasy of every lonely night.

“Morning. Smells good.”

“Morning.” I hand her a mug.

The brush of her fingers resonates along my skin. I feel it everywhere.

She sips and exhales. “You remembered.”

Of course, I remembered. I remember everything.

I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “Figured you hadn’t changed that much.”

“You figured right.”

Her eyes flick past me, toward the backyard window, where the RV glints from between the rose bushes in the morning light.

“So…” she starts slowly, “how bad is it?”

I let the question hang. Either way, it’s going to take more than a little cleaning.

I glance over my shoulder, then back at her. “It’s bad.”

Her brow arches, skeptical and sharp. “Bad how?”

I sip my coffee. “Let’s just say... unless you’re into eight-legged roommates and mildew-flavored air, you might want to stay put a little longer.”

She groans, eyes falling shut. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Her head drops back, jaw tight. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

She lifts one eye, just enough to glare at me over the rim of her mug. “I mildly dislike you at the moment.”

I grin. “Progress.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no fire behind them. Just a hint of something softer. Something familiar.

I should probably tell her the truth. That the RV’s cleaner than it’s been in years. That I scrubbed the damn thing from top to bottom last night with nothing but elbow grease, rage, and one very surprised spider I let live for strategic reasons.

But I don’t.

Having her downstairs in my shirt, barefoot in my kitchen, drinking my coffee—that’s my new daily goal. If I can fix complicated cars, I can get her back. She just needs some TLC, and I’ve got plenty of that.

“Do you mind if I borrow your bike?” she asks, tone softening. “I want to see Eric and Emma, meet my nephew, catch up with Mom and Dad.”

I set my mug on the counter. “I can drive you.”

“No, you’ve got work, and I need time to figure out how to apologize without sounding like an ass. A bike ride will be nice. I’ll be quick. I just…don’t want them learning I’m back from anyone else.”

Fair.

She slips out, and I don’t stop her. But I don’t like it.

The house turns hollow in minutes. I scrub the kitchen like a man possessed, trying to erase the image of her in my shirt—bare legs, damp hair, perky curves peeking through cotton that never had the right to look that damn good.