Chapter 3
Adrienne
Sunday mornings aren’t supposed to feel like this.
Normally, Sunday means coffee at my parents’ kitchen table, maybe catching up on paperwork before the week kicks off.
Today, though? My stomach’s been in knots since dawn, buzzing like I’m about to walk into a final exam I didn’t study for.
Which is ridiculous. It’s just a car. Just Scotty.
Just the same game we’ve been playing half our lives.
Still, I stand in front of my closet way too long, frowning at hangers full of silk blouses, pencil skirts, sharp jackets. Who works under the hood in Valentino?
I finally shove them aside and grab leggings, boots I can actually scuff, and a plain white tee. I tug Milly’s denim jacket off its hook, the one I stole back in high school and somehow never gave back.
My notebook goes into my bag almost as an afterthought. I’m not stupid; I know Scotty’s expecting me to get bored after ten minutes and let him handle everything. He doesn’t know I plan on taking notes, diagrams, maybe even a parts list. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.
The drive across town is short, but my pulse hammers the whole way. By the time the weathered sign for the garage comes into view, I’ve rehearsed half a dozen breezy lines and talked myself out of three different excuses to turn around. But then I see it.
The bay doors are rolled open to the late-morning sun. Inside, my Mustang sits in her own stall like she’s been waiting for me. Hood up, chrome dulled with age, paint faded, but lines still sleek enough to make my chest ache.
Gravel crunches under my boots as I swing the BMW door shut. I smooth my jacket like that’ll calm the nerves rattling in my chest.
“Afternoon, Barbie.”
I spin toward the voice.
Scotty’s leaning against a workbench like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed, his faded navy shirt stretched across impossibly rounded shoulders I shouldn’t notice.
I lift the extra coffee I brought, forcing casual. “I figured it’s the least I can do.”
He pushes off the bench, takes it from me with fingers that brush mine, and grunts. A grunt. That’s it. No thank you, no smile, just that low, maddening sound.
For a beat, my confidence falters. Then his chin tips toward the Mustang, sharp and simple.
“You ready to get to work?”
I almost laugh because, of course, he’s acting no-nonsense. No warm-up, no easing me in. Just straight to business. I follow him into the bay, my palm sliding over the fender of my old car.
“She still looks good.”
“Sexy as hell,” Scotty mutters.
He means the car. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But when I glance up, he’s looking at me instead of the Mustang. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
He clears his throat, nodding at the open hood. “We need to go over the rule first.”
“The rules?”
“Rule, just one. You don’t rush her. You listen.”
“To what?”
“To her.” He says softly, arms crossed as he stares at her. I stare at him for a second, expecting him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
Clearly, he isn’t joking. “I can listen.”
His mouth curves, slow and deliberate, like he hears everything I’m not saying. “Guess we’ll see.” He hands me a pair of gloves as I step next to him.
I tug on the gloves. “Alright then,” I say, forcing steadiness I don’t feel. “Where do we start?”
“Basics,” he says, stepping in closer until his shoulder brushes mine. He leans over the hood, pointing. “Fluids. Belts. Hoses. Make a list.”
I flip open my notebook, pen poised. “I guess I should have paid attention when my dad was trying to teach me this stuff a decade ago, huh?”
He ignores my laugh and gestures toward the coolant reservoir, and I try to focus, but my pulse won’t quit racing. Not with him this close. Not with his voice scraping through me like gravel under tires.
I wanted this. I asked for it. Now I just have to survive it without letting him see how much he already rattles me.
I jot down a note, then glance at the socket wrench in his hand as he points toward a bolt.
“See right down in here?” He gestures toward something, but everything looks dark and dusty.
I squint, leaning in a little closer as he angles the wrench to squeeze through a tight area.
The size alone is enough to spark the devil in me.
“You sure that tool’s the right size?” I ask innocently, eyes flicking up through my lashes. “That looks like it’s going to be so tight."
The sound that comes out of him isn’t a laugh. More like a strangled curse. His jaw flexes as he mutters, “Christ, woman.”
So that’s how we’re going to play it?
He’s usually even quicker with the comebacks and far dirtier. I smirk, victorious, until he cuts me a look so hot it scorches straight down my spine.
“Some distracted?” I tease.
“Someone a little pent up with the MLB star gone?”
I open my mouth to say something back, but then it turns to laughter. “Damn, right for the throat.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He finally asks after a few minutes. “That you guys broke up, I mean.”
“Dumped me, actually.” I correct. “Why didn’t you tell me your situationship has ended?”
“Dumped you?” He gives me a questioning look, ignoring my second comment.
“Yeah,” I sigh, pretending to focus on the car. “His dick was too big; he got sick of me not being able to handle it.” Even though I try, I can’t stop myself from laughing after I say it, but he fails to see the humor in it.
“Sounds like a you problem. User error.”
The comment hits a little below the belt, but I’m too focused on how flustered he’s getting to be annoyed. I’m about to say something snarky back when he steps closer, his chest bumping against mine as he stares down at me.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Slade, but you keep talking like that,” he says low, “and I’ll show you just how good I am at fitting a big, thick tool into a tight little slot.”
My pen stalls mid-word, and suddenly I’m the one flustered, scrambling to look busy while my pulse pounds in my ears.
The hood casts us in shadow, close enough that I can feel the heat of his arm brushing mine whenever we both lean in.
He’s focused, all business, explaining the way the belts should sit and how to check tension, but my attention keeps snagging on the line of his jaw, the grease streaks that look too good on him, the way his voice drops low when he gets technical.
I lean a little closer than I have to, pretending I’m studying what he’s pointing at. My shoulder bumps his, light but intentional. “So you’re saying you like things slow and steady.”
He grunts, reaching for the socket wrench. “I’m saying you don’t force it if it’s not ready. You gotta be willing to work with her a little more than normal if necessary. Sometimes she just needs a bit of finessing.”
I smother a smile. “Pretty sure I’ve heard that one before.”
“Focus, Barbie.” His voice is dry, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
Encouraged, I push a little harder. “If you’re this good at getting a stuck-on bolt loose, I can only imagine—”
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. For a second, I think he’ll shut me down cold. But then, his mouth curves into that slow, sinful grin I’ve known since high school. The one he tries not to give me.
“So is this your new thing then? Put all your pent-up frustration into this car and drag me along with you?”
I shrug. “Just want to put some effort into something besides work… or a man.”
That gets his attention. He pauses, his brows furrowed as if he’s studying me. “Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. “Would you do something if he had?” I bat my eyes at him, attempting to bring some levity to the conversation. “Scotty, my hero.”
He smirks. “Of course I would. You’re practically a sister to me.”
“A sister?” I know what he’s doing, attempting to douse this slow, simmering fire between us with cold water rather than gasoline. “You know we’ve kissed before, right?”
“You know what I meant.” The moment grows tense between us, his eyes dropping down to my lips for a second.
“Are you frustrated you want to again?” I know I shouldn’t.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmurs.
Heat shoots straight through me. My pen stalls on the page of my notebook, the word belts scribbled halfway before turning into nonsense. I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “Someone thinks highly of themselves.”
He leans forward on his hands, looking over his shoulder at me. “Do you want to learn how to fix this car or not, Adrienne?” His tone is serious.
“Fine. Teach me the boring stuff.”
“Basics aren’t boring.” His tone is firm, but he’s still smiling when he hands me the wrench.
I take it, my glove brushing his hand, and my chest flips at the contact. It’s stupid how much that one crack in his armor feels like a win.
So I listen. Really listen. He talks me through belts, hoses, and the carb.
I jot notes in neat handwriting while grease smudges across my wrist. Every so often, I test him with another nudge, a brush of my shoulder, a soft hum when I catch on faster than he expected.
And each time, he redirects me back to the Mustang, grounding us in the work.
Still, the longer we stand shoulder to shoulder, the less it feels like deflection and more like… something else. Like he’s holding the line, but barely.
I set the pry bar, ease the alternator until the belt gives a clean quarter inch, then snug the bolts myself. His gaze cuts to me like he’s surprised, then he gives a real nod. “Good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No, sorry, it’s just really… good,” he repeats, softer this time, tapping the belt with a fingertip. “That’s the right tension. Most people overdo it.”
I smile, feeling confident already. “Guess I’m not most people.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No, you are definitely not most people.”