8. Chapter 8
eight
Sadie
Iflipped the lights on as the sun started to sink lower in the sky.
Then I was reminded—again—that the bulb in my shop’s hanging sign had been flickering for a week. Not out, not urgent. Just annoying. It had earned its place on my “eventual” list, right between organizing the back storage and actually getting a full eight hours of sleep.
I had the new bulb ready. I even had a ladder. What I didn’t have was the upper-body strength to unscrew the old one without holding on to something for balance.
I was debating whether I could lean out the front door far enough to reach it when Diesel’s voice rumbled behind me.
“You need help?”
I turned, nearly dropping the bulb. “You’re still here?”
He shrugged, motioning to the garage. “Had to finish inventory before Beck got on my ass about it. Saw the ladder and figured you were either changing a bulb or starting a one-woman aerial act.”
I gave him a sheepish smile. “It’s the bulb. You caught me mid-circus tryout.”
Diesel didn’t say anything. He just walked over, took the bulb gently from my hand, and reached up like it was nothing—big hands moving with quiet efficiency, like always.
I stood there like a fool, watching the way the last of the sunlight caught the edge of his jaw. His sleeves were pushed up, grease still on his forearms, his shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
God help me, but even changing a light bulb, this man was devastating.
The new bulb clicked into place and lit with a soft, steady glow.
“There.” He looked down, and for a second, neither of us moved. His hand brushed mine as he passed the old bulb back. Warm. Calloused. Way too gentle for someone who looked like he could level a man with a glare.
“Thank you,” I said, and my voice came out quieter than I meant it to.
He didn’t answer right away. Just studied me, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he nodded once.
“I should get going.”
“Of course,” I said too fast, stepping back like that would fix the way my heart had started doing somersaults.
But then he paused. Right at the door. His hand hovered over the handle like he was thinking something, fighting something. He glanced back, eyes lingering on me a beat too long—just long enough to make me forget how to breathe.
And for a moment, I swear he looked at my mouth. Not in passing. Not by accident. But like he was thinking about it.
Then he cleared his throat and stepped outside, letting the door shut behind him with a soft click.
I stood there long after he was gone, light bulb still warm in my hand, trying to convince myself I hadn’t imagined the whole damn thing.
Diesel
I should’ve left five minutes ago.
Hell, I should’ve never stopped.
But there I was, just standing in her damn doorway like a fool, trying to figure out what the hell it was about her that made me feel like my ribs were too tight.
She’d looked at me with those big blue eyes, soft and open, like I was someone worth letting in. Like I hadn’t already proven I wasn’t.
And for one stupid second, I let myself want.
Just enough to picture what it’d be like to lean down and kiss her. To taste something warm and sweet instead of the bitterness I was used to.
I shut the door before I did something I couldn’t take back.
By the time I was halfway down the street, my jaw was clenched, and my fists were so tight around the handlebars, my knuckles ached.
I needed noise. Distraction. A place where nobody looked at me like I was good.
The bar would do just fine.
So I rode. Nowhere good. Just far enough to stop thinking about her mouth.