Page 3 of Stitch & Steel

Three

BELLA

It was the sound that got me first—metal on metal, faint but steady, tapping in rhythm like someone humming with their hands.

I stepped out onto the porch, expecting Gran or maybe one of the neighbors. Instead, I spotted Logan—Diesel—crouched low next to my car, sleeves rolled up, tool in one hand, his other bracing the dented bumper like it had personally offended him.

My stomach dipped.

That dent had been there for two years. City parking, tight turns, one unlucky light post. It had become part of the car's charm, like the stubborn air freshener that never smelled like “ocean breeze” but refused to fall off the rearview.

I never asked him to fix it.

And yet there he was, shirt clinging to his back in the heat, forearms flexing like corded rope with every motion. Focused. Silent. Relentless.

And absolutely not invited.

I crossed my arms and called out, “You planning to bill me for that?”

He didn’t look up. “Nah. Just couldn’t look at it any longer.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Excuse me?”

Now he looked up. His expression unreadable as ever, eyes shaded by thick lashes and a furrowed brow. “Your car. It’s been bugging me since the day you rolled in.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“Nope.”

The word hung between us, dry and unapologetic.

I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure if I was annoyed or… something else entirely. Gratitude? Guilt? Heat? Some strange cocktail of all three?

“Well, thanks,” I muttered. “I guess.”

He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and said nothing. No smile. No smug comment. Just that same heavy presence, like he took up more air than physics allowed.

“I—uh—” I gestured behind me toward the kitchen. “Would you like some iced tea? As a thank you. For the unrequested bodywork.”

He cocked his head slightly. “You offering because you want me to come in, or because you feel bad for snapping?”

I blinked. “Both?”

Something in his gaze softened. Barely. Like the edge of a blade cooling after fire.

“Alright.”

Inside, the silence stretched like a bad second date. Logan leaned against the counter while I fumbled with the glasses, pouring sweet tea like I hadn’t made it a thousand times before.

He didn’t touch his.

I took a long sip of mine, too fast, and instantly regretted it. My teeth ached.

“So,” I said, voice an octave too high, “do you always sneak around fixing women’s cars in broad daylight?”

He lifted a brow. “Only the ones I usually get naked with.”

That shut me up.

I stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, tea in hand, staring at a man who looked like he belonged in a biker bar, not my grandma’s linoleum-floored kitchen. The air felt thick. Like neither of us quite knew what to do with each other.

He took a sip of the tea, slow and deliberate. I watched the way his throat moved, the way his fingers curled around the glass—strong, steady, calloused. A man who knew how to fix things with those hands. Break things too.

He set the glass down on the counter, eyes never leaving mine. “You always this jumpy around me?”

I gave a breathy laugh. “Only when you sneak up on my car with a socket wrench and a savior complex.”

He smirked. Barely. But it was there—like a shadow at the corner of his mouth, gone before I could blink. “Could’ve let it be,” he said. “But I figured if I’m sticking close, I might as well not have to look at that damn bumper every day.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re staying close now?”

His silence answered before he did. “For a while.”

The air between us thickened. Hot, heavy, syrup-slow. I could feel the sweat gathering at the nape of my neck, trickling down my spine. Whether it was the heat or him, I didn’t know. Probably both.

I turned and reached into the fridge for the pitcher, just to give my hands something to do. I wasn’t even thirsty.

“You always this nervous around guys who fix things for you?” he asked behind me.

I bristled—because I never had a guy fix anything for me. But I’d never admit that.

I grabbed a fresh lemon slice and dropped it into my glass like it had insulted me. “No,” I said, turning back. “Just the ones who look at me like they know what color underwear I’m wearing.”

His eyes flicked down, slow as molasses. Then back up. “Red.”

My heart stuttered. “You?—”

“Lucky guess,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

I swallowed, the heat now boiling in places it shouldn’t be. My knees. My throat. Somewhere deep in my stomach.

He stepped closer. Not too close—but enough that I could smell the faint trace of motor oil and pine soap clinging to his skin.

“I can stop fixing things if it bothers you,” he said, voice low. “But I’m not gonna stop looking.”

The glass in my hand was slick with condensation. Or sweat. Maybe both.

I cleared my throat. “Well… I guess if you’re gonna lurk around like a biker-shaped shadow, I might as well put you to work.”

He lifted a brow. “Yeah?”

“There’s a loose screen door out back,” I said, aiming for casual but failing hard. “And the fan in Gram’s room clicks like a metronome in a padded cell.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded once. “I’ll take a look.”

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just short-circuited every nerve ending in my body with a couple of words and a glance.

I exhaled so hard I nearly bent double.

This man was dangerous.

And I was starting to wonder if I wanted to be saved—or ruined.

He fixed the screen door like he was mending something sacred—meticulous, silent, almost reverent. Same with the leaky faucet in the back bathroom and the fan in Gram’s room, which had been clicking like it was counting down to doomsday.

By the time he was done, the cabin sounded… calm.

Too calm.

He wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it in the sink, and turned to me with that unreadable expression I was starting to realize meant trouble. The kind you didn’t see coming until it was already breathing down your neck, whispering sweet, wicked things.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice low and certain. Like a promise.

I crossed my arms, trying to hold my composure—and failing.

He moved toward the door, then paused, one boot lingering on the threshold. “Don’t get complacent up here, Bella.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m not safe?”

“I’m saying,” he said, stepping back in just enough to crowd my space, “even with me watching, you still lock the door. Every time. No exceptions.”

I nodded, the breath hitching in my chest.

“And be good.” His voice dropped just a little lower. His gaze swept down my body and back up—slow enough to make my skin prickle.

Then he smirked.

That same damn smirk that curled his mouth like a secret and made me want to throw something—or climb him like a tree.

His lips pressed together, that teasing little purse like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

And then he was gone.

Just the growl of his bike fading down the dirt road, the echo of his words wrapped around my ribs like a corset cinched too tight.

I stood there in the doorway, blinking like I’d just walked out of a dream.

Hot.

Bothered.

Mad.

Mad at him, mad at myself, mad at how his voice made my stomach twist and my knees feel like I was made of paper maché.

He made me feel like some 1950s housewife waiting on her man to fix the sink and ride off into the sunset.

I fanned my face with both hands, muttering to myself. “Get a grip, Bella.”

But the way he’d looked at me?

Yeah, no amount of iced tea or cold showers was going to cool that down anytime soon.