4. Chapter 4
four
Diesel
Iwas heading out to grab lunch when I heard it—a scream of frustration followed by a string of very not pink, fluffy words coming from the open door of the bakery.
“Shit! No, no, no! Damn it.”
I grinned, just a little.
Sounded like sunshine was having a rough day.
I crossed the street and stepped into the doorway just as she bent over, frantically trying to roll some glittery goop across the floor.
And her ass?
Bent like that, it made the perfect little heart shape under those overalls.
Fuck.
“Need some help?” I asked, my voice low, rough.
She yelped and spun around, one hand flying to her chest. “Diesel! You scared the crap out of me!”
I held back the smile fighting its way to my mouth. Barely.
“You sounded like you were having trouble.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Yeah, apparently all those TikToks lied. Epoxy flooring isn’t actually magic. It’s just sticky and messy and probably permanent.”
She swiped at her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of glitter across her temple.
Something about her flustered like this, all sweaty, irritated, and still sweet, it got to me, more than it should’ve.
“Here,” I said, stepping in and grabbing the bucket. “Let me help.”
She blinked at me, surprised. “Seriously?”
“I’m already here.”
I helped her pour another batch of the sparkly resin onto the floor while she smoothed it with the roller, tongue peeking out between her teeth in concentration.
I tried not to stare.
I failed.
Sadie
I did not think this through.
Shit.
Diesel and I were now completely trapped in the kitchen, a sea of uncured glitter epoxy stretching between us and both exits.
Front door? Not an option.
Back door? Also nope.
Double shit.
I glanced at him. He didn’t look mad. Yet. Just… grumpy. Which, to be fair, might be his default setting.
“Well,” I said, clapping my hands like this was totally fine and not my own personal anxiety spiral, “the good news is, I have snacks.”
His brows lifted, but he didn’t say anything.
I grabbed the tray I’d set on the counter earlier and turned toward him, holding it like a peace offering. “Three test recipes. I need honesty. Brutal, soul-crushing honesty.”
On the tray were three cookies: A dark chocolate turtle cookie with chopped pecans and just a touch of coffee to make the chocolate sing, a snickerdoodle with a ginger kick, and a death-by-chocolate cookie with chocolate chips, cocoa powder, and a gooey center so rich it might qualify as a sin
“That one’s my favorite,” I added, pointing to the chocolate bomb. “But I’m biased. I basically survived college on cookies and chaos.”
I was trying to act normal. Totally unbothered. Just a girl in her kitchen with a grumpy mechanic and drying floors that looked like unicorn puke. No big deal.
I offered him the cookies. He stared like I’d just handed him a raw squid.
I gave him a lopsided smile. “I mean, they’re not poisoned.”
He grunted. Took a bite. Then another.
Still silent.
Whatever. Some people just didn’t understand the sacred act of cookie appreciation.
You see, I was used to appreciative moans.
Or at least a “damn, that’s good,” or a little eye-roll of delight. Something.
But with this big, broody wall of a man?
Nothing.
No moan. No “good job.” Not even a polite grunt of acknowledgment.
He just chewed like I’d handed him a saltine.
Slow. Thoughtful. Completely unreadable.
I blinked at him. “Okay, wow. I think I’ve met my match in emotional repression.”
Still nothing.
I folded my arms. “Is it that bad? Just tell me. I can take it. I’ve cried over recipe flops before; it builds character.”
He swallowed. Finally, he looked at the remaining two cookies on the tray.
No joke, I saw the tiniest flicker of interest in his eyes.
Was that… curiosity?
“You’re gonna try another?” I asked flatly.
He didn’t answer.
I moved to rinse out a bowl, humming absently as I scrubbed.
And then—
“You hum when you're comfortable.”
I froze.
My hands were still in the soapy water. I blinked, looked over my shoulder.
He was watching me. Not just with his usual resting scowl. Something softer. Curious.
I swallowed. “What?”
He looked away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Back when I was painting, you did the same thing. Hummed some... folky song. I remembered it.”
I turned fully then, drying my hands on a towel, my heart tapping faster.
“You noticed that?”
He didn’t answer. But he kept eating the cookie.
That’s when I noticed something else.
He’d only eaten the chocolate one. The one I said was my favorite.
And he was still looking at me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided was worth solving yet.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
He didn’t speak.
Just took a bite like this was a casual Tuesday—not a glitter-covered bake-off hostage situation.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, hyper-aware of the glitter-drenched epoxy curing between us and the nearest escape. The kitchen suddenly felt… smaller. Warmer. And it wasn't the oven.
Diesel finished chewing, eyes steady on me now. Like he was trying to figure something out. Like I was the recipe.
“Well?” I asked, forcing a bright tone, even though my palms were starting to sweat. “Too much ginger? Be honest. I can take it.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second.
A very long half-second.
Then back up.
“Good,” he finally said. Low. Rough. Like the word got dragged out of him by force.
That one syllable zinged straight through me like I’d been plugged into a live wire.
I cleared my throat and tried to keep it together. “Cool. Great. I’ll just go ahead and enter it in a baking contest now.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile.
Then he reached for the death-by-chocolate cookie.
Of course.
Of course, he’d save the rich, dark, unapologetically decadent one for last.
I watched as he took a bite, slowly, like he was letting it melt on his tongue.
My mouth went dry.
This time, his eyes didn’t leave mine.
And suddenly, I was very aware that we were alone. Trapped. With no exits. Surrounded by sugar and glitter and about forty square feet of terrible decisions.
“I—uh,” I said, fidgeting with the hem of my apron. “I should check on… something. With the… timer.”
There was no timer.
I just needed to stop staring at his mouth like I was two seconds from climbing over the counter and frosting it myself.
Diesel
I didn’t think much of it at first. Just a favor. She looked like she was struggling, and yeah, I’m not a total bastard.
But now?
Now I was fucking trapped in a kitchen that looked like it exploded out of a five-year-old’s birthday party. Glitter epoxy glinted under every light. Smelled like sugar and something dangerously feminine.
I tried not to look at her.
She was humming.
Again.
In the same way she had when I’d helped her paint. Same melody. Soft, almost not there—but enough. It made something settle deep in my chest, something I didn’t like poking too hard at.
She clapped her hands. “The good news is, I have snacks.”
I stared.
She was holding out a tray of cookies like a peace offering. Or a trap. I wasn’t sure which.
“Three test recipes. I need honest opinions. Ruthless honesty. Brutal, even.”
She talked too much. Always filled with silence, like she was afraid of it. Just like—
I shoved that thought out of my head.
She started describing the cookies. One with coffee and pecans. Another with ginger. Then she pointed to the darkest one. Said it was her favorite.
I didn’t say anything. Just took the first cookie. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.
She looked at me like I was supposed to give her a standing ovation. I didn’t. I was too busy trying to figure out why the hell she smelled like vanilla and something warm and floral. Something sweet. Too sweet.
She cracked a joke. Called me emotionally repressed.
Not the first time I’d heard it. Wouldn’t be the last.
Then she turned to rinse a bowl, humming again. I watched her back. The curve of her waist. The way she swayed just a little when she worked.
And then I said it like a fucking idiot.
“You hum when you’re comfortable.”
She froze. I felt it. Like I’d said something I wasn’t supposed to.
She turned, drying her hands on a towel, looking at me like I’d just handed her my ribcage.
“You noticed that?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat felt like sandpaper.
I just reached for another cookie, her favorite.
It was rich. Dark. Gooey in the middle.
So was the way she was looking at me now.
She asked again about the ginger, if it was too much.
My eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second.
Soft lips. Smudged with chocolate.
Fuck.
“Good,” I said. Rough. Quiet. Felt like dragging gravel through my vocal cords.
She swallowed hard. Tried to crack another joke, but her voice wobbled.
She turned away. Fidgeted and said something about a timer that didn’t exist.
And all I could think about was how close she was. How the hell did she manage to look like sunshine and sex and safety, all rolled into one sugar-dusted package?
I didn’t want to want her.
But I did.
And it scared the hell out of me.