Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
DIESEL
The cylinder head for Sandra's Mustang sits on my workbench, disassembled into dozens of parts.
I've been at it since dawn, taking apart, cleaning, and assessing each component.
The familiar, methodical process usually clears my mind, but today my thoughts keep drifting to warm brown eyes and that almost kiss under the stars.
"You look like shit," Marcus observes as he clocks in. "Late night?"
I grunt, focusing on the valve I'm cleaning. "Early morning."
"Right." He smirks, clearly not buying it. "Nothing to do with Old Man Joe's granddaughter?"
My head snaps up. "What about her?"
"Town's talking. Saw you two at Paolo's last night. Candlelit dinner? Very romantic."
"It was just dinner," I growl, though the memory of her fingers linked with mine feels anything but casual.
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." Marcus's grin widens. "She coming in today?"
"Don't you have work to do?" I point to the Jeep in bay two. "Oil change and tire rotation. Now."
He gives a mock salute but thankfully moves off to do actual work instead of interrogating me about Sandra. The last thing I need is everyone in town gossiping about us before there's even an "us" to gossip about.
Is there an us? The question has been circling my mind since I walked away from her last night, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from turning back and finishing what we started. She's a customer. Temporary in town. And I don't do temporary. Not anymore.
The bell over the front door jingles, and my pulse jumps. I wipe my hands on a rag, glancing up to see Micah Kane instead of Sandra.
"Torres," he greets, striding in like he owns the place. All the Kane brothers have that confident walk, like they've never doubted themselves for a single moment of their lives.
"Kane," I nod. "What can I do for you?"
"Need your expertise for the Toronto club. Thinking about a vintage motorcycle display in the entrance lobby. Something to catch the eye."
I raise an eyebrow. "And you want me to what? Source the bikes?"
"Source them, restore them, display them however you think best." He shrugs like he's not asking for weeks of work. "Roman says you're the best. Said you'd know exactly what would make the right impression."
"I'm backed up for at least a month," I tell him, gesturing to the parts spread across my workbench. "Big restoration project."
"The Mustang?" Micah nods toward the cherry red classic sitting in bay one. "Roman mentioned that too. Said it belongs to Old Man Joe's granddaughter."
Of course Roman mentioned it. Nothing stays private in this town for long.
"Yeah," I say curtly, hoping to shut down that line of conversation.
Micah studies me for a moment, too perceptive for comfort. "This doesn't have to be immediate. We're looking at a spring opening for the Toronto location. Just wanted to get you thinking about it."
"I'll consider it," I concede. "Can't promise anything."
"Fair enough." He hands me a business card with Club Crimson's sleek logo. "Call me when you've got some ideas. Budget's flexible for the right concept."
I pocket the card, knowing this could be a lucrative gig. The Kane brothers pay well and don't micromanage. Still, I'm not sure I want to take on anything that might delay Sandra's car.
The thought brings me up short. Since when do I prioritize one customer's project over a potentially major contract? Since Sandra Hemmings walked into my garage with her sunshine smile and stubborn determination, that's when.
Micah leaves with a casual wave, and I turn back to the disassembled engine parts, trying to refocus. But my concentration is shot, my mind circling back to Sandra. To the way her eyes lit up when she understood how the carburetor worked. To how her hand felt in mine as we walked through town.
To the way her lips parted just before that damn car horn interrupted us.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting down the valve I've been cleaning for the past five minutes. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager with a crush rather than a grown man who knows better than to get involved with a customer.
The bell jingles again, and this time it is Sandra. My heart does that stupid jump thing again, like it's trying to escape my chest.
She's wearing jeans and a green sweater that brings out the warm undertones in her brown skin. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils framing her face. She looks soft and approachable in a way most people in my life aren't.
"Morning," she calls, smiling like she's genuinely happy to see me. "Hope I'm not too early."
I check the wall clock. Nine fifteen. "You're fine. I've been here for hours."
"Couldn't sleep?" She approaches my workbench, peering at the parts I've been cleaning.
"Something like that," I admit, not meeting her eyes.
She leans against the bench, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and citrusy. "Me neither. Kept thinking about dinner. About after."
My pulse quickens. "Sandra..."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to make things awkward." She straightens, putting a little more distance between us. "We almost kissed. It didn't happen. No big deal."
But the disappointment in her voice says it is a big deal. At least to her.
"It's not that I didn't want to," I find myself saying. "It's just..."
"Complicated?" she supplies. "Because I'm a customer? Because I'm just passing through?"
"Yes," I admit, grateful she understands. "All of that."
She nods, her expression thoughtful rather than hurt.
"I get it. But for the record, I'm not just passing through.
Not necessarily." She gestures to the Mustang.
"That car's going to take at least a month to fix, maybe longer.
And Grandpa's cabin isn't going anywhere.
I came here for a fresh start, remember? "
"A month isn't exactly putting down roots," I point out, though a small voice in my head whispers that a month would be longer than I've let anyone get close in years.
"True," she concedes. "But it's long enough to see if there's something worth exploring." Her eyes meet mine, direct and challenging. "Unless you're not interested?"
The question is heavy with implication. Am I interested? My body certainly thinks so. Even now, standing a respectable distance away, I'm acutely aware of every small movement she makes, every shift of her expression.
"I'm interested," I admit finally. "More than I should be."
Her smile blooms, bright and genuine. "Good. Me too."
We stare at each other for a long moment, tension crackling in the air between us.
"So," she says eventually, breaking the silence. "What's the plan for today? More engine disassembly? Or are you ready to let me try some actual repairs?"
The abrupt shift to car talk throws me for a second before I recognize it for what it is: a graceful exit from an increasingly charged moment.
"Cleaning components today," I tell her, gesturing to the parts spread across my workbench. "Not exactly glamorous, but necessary."
"I'm game if you are." She rolls up her sleeves, revealing smooth brown forearms. "Show me what to do, boss."
For the next few hours, we work side by side, cleaning engine parts with solvent and wire brushes.
I show her how to inspect each component for wear or damage, explaining what I'm looking for and why it matters.
She's a quick study, asking intelligent questions and handling the parts with increasing confidence.
It's strangely intimate, this shared task. Our hands occasionally brush as we pass tools back and forth. Our shoulders bump when we both reach for the same component. Each contact sends a jolt of awareness through me that's increasingly difficult to ignore.
"What's this part called again?" she asks, holding up a small metal piece.
"Rocker arm," I tell her, taking it from her hand. Our fingers touch, and I let the contact linger. "It translates the motion of the camshaft to the valves."
She nods, eyes on our still-touching hands rather than the part I'm explaining. "And it's important because...?"
"Because without it, the valves won't open and close properly. The engine won't run." My voice sounds lower than normal, rougher.
"So it's a crucial component," she says, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes. "Small but essential."
"Exactly." I'm not sure we're talking about car parts anymore.
The garage around us fades away, my focus narrowing to Sandra's face, to the slight parting of her lips, to the question in her eyes. This time, there's no car horn to interrupt us, no reason to pull back except my own reservations.
And suddenly, those don't seem as important as they did yesterday.
I move closer, setting the rocker arm on the workbench without looking. Sandra tilts her chin up, anticipation clear in her expression. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach up to cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip.
"I'm going to kiss you now," I tell her, giving her a chance to pull away if I've misread the situation.
"Finally," she whispers, leaning into my touch. "I thought you'd never get around to it."
That's all the encouragement I need. I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to hers in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly becomes something else entirely. Her mouth is soft and warm, opening eagerly under mine. She tastes like coffee and something sweet, and I'm instantly addicted.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, half sigh and half moan, and it goes straight to my groin. My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her steady as I deepen the kiss, my tongue exploring the warm recesses of her mouth.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. I back her against the workbench, my free hand finding her waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of her hip. She arches into me, our bodies aligning in a way that makes my breath catch.