Page 158 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

Henley plays cameraperson as I work on the seat adjustments.

During a quick call to update David on the inch issue—he apologized profusely for giving us the glamour height—he asked if we’d be willing to shoot a DIY-style video today on our work.

“Though, please don’t reveal his real height,” he told us.

And so the girl I got off to a week ago thanks to Bubble-Bath-Nipplegate is capturing me on her cell phone for all posterity.

“Tell us about the seat, Mr. Summers.”

I give an overview of the plans for it, keeping the details straightforward and the height close to the vest, per David’s request. Even though there’s no love lost between car-build reality shows and me, I don’t mind these promos.

The work is real, and we’re not asked to crank the metal music or talk like streetwise presenters.

As I finish the explanation, I add, “And these cars are made for drivers who are average height and build.”

“But Brick is tall and broad. He’s a big man, right?”

I nod. “That’s why we need to customize the seat.”

“Besides,” Henley quips from next to her cell phone, “you know what they say about big men?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What do they say about big men?”

She pauses, wiggles an eyebrow, and then performs a pretend drumroll with one hand. “A big man needs a big seat.”

“That he does.”

She taps her phone, ending the video. She drops the device back into her jeans. “You thought I was going to say something inappropriate?”

“Gee, Queen of Inches, I wonder why I’d think that?”

She winks. “I thought the network would enjoy a little fun banter between us. But we can go back to hating each other now.”

I sigh heavily as we work on the seat, crouching close to each other by the driver’s side. “I don’t hate you, Henley.”

“Could have fooled me.”

She’s mostly quiet the rest of the day, and so am I. We become the living, breathing definition of all business as we tackle this car.

When it’s time to wrap up in the early evening, she grabs her purse and heads to the restroom. When she returns, her hair is thicker and fuller than before, and her lips shine with red gloss. She takes a deep breath then speaks in an even tone. “I have a question for you.”

“Have at it.”

“Did it surprise you that I could solve a problem?”

“Huh?” I ask as I gather the tools and put them away.

“You acted surprised that I figured out the issue with the seat.”

I shake my head as I sort the wrenches into their drawers. “No. I wasn’t surprised you figured it out.”

“You seemed shocked.” Her pitch rises.

“Well, I wasn’t.” My voice tightens.

“Is it because you really never thought I would amount to anything?”

I blink. “Are you insane? I always thought you were crazy talented.”

“You didn’t promote me because of one mistake on the Mustang. But maybe it wasn’t about one mistake. Maybe it was that you never thought I was good enough.”

I shake my head, my jaw clenching. “You went out and proved me wrong then, so why do you care what I thought?”

“That’s a good question, isn’t it?” She taps her chin. “Why do I care?”

I park my hands on my hips. “You tell me.”

She shakes her head and walks toward the rear of the Lambo, then swivels around and paces back. As I snap a tool drawer closed, she enters my line of sight. I straighten, and she’s standing right in front of me, her eyes brimming with red-hot pissed-off-ness.

Fuck the color wheel. She’s a forest fire right now, branches and tree trunks snapping to the ground in a blaze. She bites out the next words. “There’s something I need to say to you.”

I tense because this can’t be good. I lean against the hood of the Challenger. “Say it.”

“Can you stop making insinuations about what I do after hours?”

I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

She levels a hard stare at me. “You made the boyfriend comment at Thalia’s.

You thought I was calling some guy when I was actually peeing and calling my brother.

Earlier, you made some sort of insinuation about what I was doing at the Hudson because I have a notepad from the hotel.

Are you obsessed with my nighttime activities? ”

“No,” I scoff, rolling my eyes for good measure. “I don’t think of what you do at night. Or during the day either.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. I’ve surpassed my recommended daily allowance of thoughts about one woman ever since she returned to town.

“Good. Because you shouldn’t be thinking of what I’m doing.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. My eyes follow her hand, watching every move she makes.

A waft of something that smells like spring apples floats by.

Did she spray perfume on her neck when she was in the restroom?

My mouth waters, and my pulse pounds in my ears.

The woman looks and smells absolutely sexy at five in the evening after working on a car all day—from mechanic to sexpot in one quick restroom trip.

Reality smacks me in the gut. She probably has a date tonight. She’s probably seeing whoever she screwed at the Hudson last night. My jaw tightens. My fists clench.

That’s why she’s laying down the law with me. So I can stay the fuck out of her personal life. And you know what? That’s exactly where I need to be.

Out .

I shrug, like this conversation is pointless. “I’m not thinking at all about what you do.”

“Good.” She raises that stubborn little chin. “Because I’m not thinking about what you do.”

But I am thinking of that little streak of grease on her chin that I just noticed. I picture her meeting her date with that dirt on her face. Even I’m not that much of an asshole. I step closer, bring my thumb to my tongue, and wet it. She watches me curiously.

“You have . . .” I point in the direction of the streak.

She lifts her hand to wipe it.

“Don’t do that,” I say, harshly. “You’ll smudge it and look stupid.”

I bring my thumb to her face. Her big brown eyes follow my hand.

Those eyes sparkle, and up close like this they darken.

But not in that angry way I’ve seen. It’s different now, as if they’re blazing as she watches every move I make.

When the pad of my thumb presses against her cheek, her breath hitches.

As I rub my thumb over her skin, a small gasp of air follows, then she clamps her lips shut.

Back and forth I rub, removing the streak. She’s inches from me now, so close I can tell she sprayed the spring apple perfume on her collarbone. So near I can smell her cinnamon breath.

My pulse thunders.

When I finish, I don’t let go of her face. I cradle her jaw in my hand.

It’s her move.

And she makes it.