Chapter Two
Elise
Oh, God, I’m staring at him.
Like I’ve never seen a hot man with dimples before.
Say something. Anything.
Think.
His hand had just dropped from his forehead, leaving a faint streak of grease behind, and somehow that made him more attractive.
It shouldn’t have. He was messy and I didn’t like messy. I didn’t trust it.
I blinked.
Right now would be a good time to say something flirty. Or cute.
Something normal.
I can do normal.
“I’ll be out in the lobby,” I blurted and bolted toward the waiting area.
The waiting room looked exactly as it always did. Same chairs. Same stack of outdated magazines. Same faint smell of coffee that had been brewed hours ago and left to sit.
Predictable.
I liked predictable.
Mrs. Donnelly was already there, settled into her usual chair with a book open in her lap. Her car had as many mechanical issues as the one I chose to drive, so it was hardly our first time waiting together, even though we’d never gotten past introducing ourselves.
She didn’t look up when I walked in, and for a second, I assumed today would be like every other time. We would sit in the same room, exist near each other, and leave without exchanging more than a nod.
I sat across from her, folded my hands in my lap, and stared at nothing in particular. There was a comfort to simply being where others were.
Especially since no one in town knew who I was. In Basin Ridge, I was just Elise.
“You’re making a mistake, you know.”
I looked up.
Mrs. Donnelly glanced at me over the top of her glasses.
“I’m sorry?”
She tipped her head toward the garage. “That man in there.”
Heat crept up the back of my neck, a sudden, stubborn wave of warmth that completely ignored my attempts to keep my composure. “What about him?”
“If I were your age,” she said, turning a page in her book, “I’d be finding reasons to walk past him until he noticed me.”
I nodded once.
She continued, “Then I’d drop something. You know how women used to drop handkerchiefs to catch a man’s attention? It’s not that easy anymore. But I’d drop something, for sure. Not my pants, but possibly a button or two from my shirt.”
My T-shirt doesn’t have buttons. I opened my mouth to say so but decided against it. Why state something that was obvious?
I could make a joke that involves my grandmother’s handkerchief. I think I still have one tucked away in the memory box my father made for me when she passed away.
No, that’s not funny, and she’s joking with me.
I should joke back.
Say something like, “The old unbutton-till-his-eyes-pop move? That’s how my parents met.”
I didn’t say that, though, because it wasn’t true. And I’ll lie if I have to, but I don’t like to. Plus, then she might ask me about my parents and once again, I couldn’t tell her the truth.
Mrs. Donnelly gave me a look that said she might know I was spiraling. “Men like that don’t come around here often. Go shoot your shot.” Then she framed her hand into a gun and made pew-pew sounds that surprised me enough to have me sitting up even straighter.
Shoot my shot?
Imagine? I’d walk in the garage bay like a cowboy strutting into a saloon.
Pew. Pew, Mr. Gorgeous Dimples. Pew. Pew. You’re mine now.
He’d probably run.
I chuckled to myself.
Mrs. Donnelly watched me for another second, then returned her attention to her book.
And just like that, the moment was over.
And I hadn’t spoken.
A dozen more things I could have said, should have said, swirled through my thoughts. I opened my mouth to say one of them but became lost trying to decide which to break the silence with, so I said nothing.
I could have asked her what she was reading.
I could have asked if we could switch shirts so I could do that button move on him.
No, that would have been weird.
But I should have said something.
Instead, I sat there, quiet, like always.
My gaze drifted toward the doorway that led back into the garage.
He was still there. The opportunity was still available.
I’m acting like the scared virgin I’m not.
I’ve been told I’m neurodivergent. Not officially diagnosed, but when I let people close enough to share my thoughts with them, they tended to throw labels around like confetti.
Being a little odd didn’t stop men from wanting to fuck me, so I’d dabbled a couple of times just to see what the fuss was all about.
Not bad, but also not worth the associated risks: disease, pregnancy, explaining why they could never meet my family.
Celibacy was simpler.
And it had been a long time since I’d been tempted.
Go shoot your shot.
Even if he’s not interested, the experience might provide me with something to laugh with Mrs. Donnelly about the next time we have our cars serviced at the same time.
My side quest stood leaning over the hood of a car. He said something that made Roy laugh. Not politely, but a belly-jiggle-level laugh.
He looked up and smiled at me, and I almost lost my nerve. What if he is dumb as a rock?
We could talk about . . . what do regular people discuss? I know, I’ll ask him where he’s from and then quickly Google which sports teams come from there and ask him if he’s a fan.
My attention dropped briefly to his shoes. They were what I really wanted to ask him about. They didn’t belong in a garage like this. Expensive. Italian. Out of place.
Like him?
Sure, that would be a great opening line. Hello, handsome. I couldn’t help but notice that your shoes are Stefano Bemer, not everyone’s choice for garage footwear, but I respect your confidence.
I’m overthinking this. I stepped closer and let the first thing that came to me fly. “How many cars are ahead of mine?” Pew. Pew. Dodge that level of sophisticated flirting.
Roy answered me. “Only a couple more.” He jerked his chin toward Brady. “Thanks to him.”
“I’ll just . . .” Stand here? Lurk?
Drop something?
All I had was my purse. Well, here goes.
I let it drop to the floor then just looked at it. Why? I don’t know. This was where women pretend they can’t problem solve or bend.
“I’ll get that,” Brady said, rushing over.
Holy shit, that works?
He had it in his greasy hand and held it out for me to take back in a heartbeat. I don’t even care that it’ll probably always smell like this place.
“Thank you,” I said, carefully retrieving it from him.
“You should ask her,” Roy said.
Ask me? My heart started racing. The sensible thing would be to at least find out his last name before saying yes to whatever he has in mind.
But what did Mrs. Donnelly say? Men like him don’t come around here often.
I swallowed hard and waited, eyes round.
Brady took out his phone, tapped it to bring up a map, and pointed at the exact location of my family’s high-security, completely self-contained, off-the-grid, secret compound. “Do you know what’s here?”
“No,” I lied, straight-faced.
“He’s looking for a man named Thomas Steele,” Roy said. “You ever hear of him?”
This wasn’t the first time someone had come looking for my family.
Our work was innovative, government contract, military secret defense level technology.
Of course people wanted it. Maintaining control of our work required diligence to both security as well as secrecy.
That one question had moved Brady from mildly entertaining to a potential threat.
I shook my head. “Can’t say that I have. ”
He repocketed his phone while I began to run through threat assessment scenarios.
He didn’t have the muscle-memory rigidity of someone from the FBI.
They tended to default to stances that allowed their hands to be relaxed but above the waistline for a clean weapon draw.
No fresh fade. His hands weren’t the smooth, soft ones a corporate tech asset might have.
No facial lines that indicate a history of aggression.
He was young, about my age, so perhaps those would evolve over time.
I watched for micro-expressions indicating some calculation to his friendly facade but noted none.
Just those damn dimples that deepened the longer I looked at him.
“Too bad,” Brady said. “But I’ll find him. It’s just difficult because he doesn’t appear to have a digital footprint. I know he exists and I spoke to someone who suggested he might have settled around here, but that’s all I have to go on.”
His attempt to disarm me with seemingly forthright information failed. In a thick voice, I said, “Thomas Steele sounds like a common name.”
“It sure is.” Brady laughed as if I’d made a joke. When he realized I wasn’t laughing with him, he waved and said, “Sorry. That fact would have been nice to know at the start.”
“He’s looking for a specific one,” Roy said.
“Why?” I asked in a neutral tone.
“Family thing,” Brady said. “He and my father were friends way back when.”
“What’s your father’s name?” I tried to sound curious but not interested.
“Gabe Holliston,” he said.
My father had never mentioned the name, so I shrugged then gave Brady another once over.
The ease. The confidence. His tan. The shoes.
They were all pieces to a puzzle I was sorting before placing together.
I’d never seen him in the garage before, but he seemed as comfortable as if he’d always been there. Was it an act?
My attention was drawn back to his hands. Strong. Calloused. Working hands. No ring. No tan line or indent where one might have been. What was someone like him doing in Basin Ridge and why was he looking for my father?
“How long have you worked here?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His charm was warm and inviting despite why he was there. Watching the steady rise and fall of his broad chest, and the easy, entirely unbothered way he looked at me, made my acceptance of the choice of celibacy feel premature.
“Just today,” Brady said. “Unless Roy needs me tomorrow.”
Roy made a sound I wasn’t sure how to interpret, then added, “And if we don’t get back to work, neither of those ladies will be leaving with their cars today.”
“Right,” Brady said. “What’s next?”
“Another oil change then a brake job,” Roy answered.
“Sounds messy,” I said because that was all that came to mind.
“Life is messy,” Brady said with an easy smile. “But that’s what keeps it interesting.”
That answer . . . why did I feel it all the way down to my curling toes? “I should go back to the waiting area I guess,” I said.
“That would help,” Roy said dryly.
I stood there for a moment longer, wanting to ask Brady why he was looking for Thomas Steele, but he was already returning to the side of one of the raised cars.
Mrs. Donnelly didn’t look up when I stepped back into the waiting room. I normally would have rejoined her, but I needed to get somewhere private so I could do a full and extensive background check on one Brady Holliston.
I walked past her toward the door.
“Did you get his number?” she asked, turning a page.
I paused. “I did not.”
She glanced up then, studying me. “Because you shouldn’t or because you didn’t want to?”
I met her gaze.
Thought about Mr. Gorgeous Dimples.
And the risk he might pose to my family.
Despite how he appeared, he could be FBI. CIA. Interpol. Or simply a plant from some competing cybersecurity company. The only thing I knew for sure was that he was not just a mechanic.
“Both,” I said, then stepped through the door and texted for a car to pick me up.