Chapter 8
Scotty
The shop’s a madhouse like always. I’ve got the guys circled around a schematic that looks like a plate of spaghetti with hoses, bearings, and the seed tubes we’re retrofitting for Vargas’s tiller.
“Listen up,” I say, tapping the diagram with a knuckle. “We’re rerouting the hydraulic return so the flow doesn’t cavitate when he pivots on a grade. If you don’t prime the line before you bolt the coupler, you’re gonna spend your Saturday chasing a phantom air pocket. Ask me how I know.”
Pete mutters something under his breath to Caleb and gets a few laughs for it. I point at the two of them. “You run torques. Two passes. If you eyeball it, I’ll know.”
“Yessir,” Pete says with a half-assed salute.
We break. I lean into the John Deere’s guts, elbow deep, wrist under a bracket that I swear was never designed for adult human hands. You’d think they’d consider that when designing the damn thing.
“Fuck!” I jerk my hand back, the tight squeeze pinching my skin. I pull my shoulders down, taking a brief second to regroup when I hear the sound of heels on concrete.
Click. Click. Click.
Every head in a twenty-foot radius turns before mine does, but I still know exactly who it is without looking. Perfume floats in under the swamp cooler, soft and floral, cutting through oil and hitting my nose.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My mouth goes dry when I get a look at what she’s wearing. A sleek black dress hugging every inch of a body that belongs on a magazine cover, not in my filthy garage. That gorgeous blonde mop of curls is bouncing with each step. Those god damn heels that turn perfectly good men into idiots.
“Morning, boys,” she says with a little wave of her fingers, and half my staff forgets how to hold tools and form a single thought.
“Jesus,” Pete whispers. A socket skitters across concrete. Someone kills a compressor by accident.
I clamp my jaw and try to make myself not look completely knocked off fucking kilter. I feel my pulse kick like a starter catching. She can do that without even trying. Hell, maybe because she isn’t trying. It’s worse when she’s just… her.
I step back from the Deere, and she sweeps past, eyes barely catching mine before gliding past me like I’m just one more tool chest. My body responds instantly.
Just that simple brush of perfume and the faintest smirk on her lips has me ready to lose my damn mind.
For one stupid second, my body leans after her like I’m magnetized.
She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. She just confidently walks right past me like I’m a ghost.
Through the window, I watch her drop one hip against Dolly’s desk. She laughs at something she says, throwing her head back a little as she crosses her legs. The dress kisses her mid-thigh when she scoots back on the desk, leaving my mouth watering.
“Boss?” Pete’s at my elbow, doing a piss-poor job of sounding casual. “You want me to, uh… check her tires?”
I don’t look at him. “Touch her car, and you’re cleaning floor drains for a month.”
“Was just—”
“Floor drains, Pete.”
He snickers, and somebody else coughs to hide a laugh. I glare them down and jerk my chin at the header. “Move.”
We circle the Deere again. I pick up where I left off, turning my attention back to priming, return lines, and reminding the guys to not skip the goddamn bleed procedure. I get three sentences in before my attention drifts like it’s got a mind of its own. Back to the glass. Back to her.
She’s animated, hands talking, eyes bright.
Dolly’s grinning because Dolly loves good gossip, and Adrienne’s the kind of gossip that knows just how to deliver a story so that you’re hanging on her every word.
She takes a sip from the bottle of water Dolly passes her, and I think about her mouth for exactly one second too long.
“Hey.” Caleb’s smirking at me. “You hearing yourself, boss, or are we free-styling this install?”
I flick the back of his hat. “I’m focused.” I lie.
He grins wider. “Sure thing, boss.”
The men snort. I don’t blame them. I look like a man trying to pretend a lightning storm isn’t about to roll straight over him while he stands in a field with a golf club. I pull my eyes away from the window..
I get five minutes of peace before laughter spills from the office again. She leans closer to Dolly, says something I can’t hear, her ankle bouncing once as she crosses her legs tighter. The bounce makes the dress ride a fraction higher. My grip slips on the ratchet.
“Mother—”
“Need a smaller extension?” Pete offers.
“I need you to remember how to count to ten without your lips moving.”
“All due respect, boss, your counting’s off.” He taps his temple. “You’re on, like, four and a half right now. Maybe three. It’s rough.”
I shove the ratchet into his chest. “Tighten those and shut up.”
He does what he’s told, but they keep up the ribbing.
I try again. Checklist. Bleed valve. V-band.
Dillon asks something about a grain monitor, and I answer on autopilot, but my attention keeps boomeranging back to that glass.
I expect her to glance up eventually. A look.
A flicker. The usual game we play that no one admits to watching. But she gives me nothing.
She doesn’t look at me once.
Dolly points toward the lot, probably telling some story about Ranger or Amethyst, and Adrienne laughs hard enough she has to press a hand to her stomach.
It’s a good laugh. Real. She pushes off the desk, murmurs something, checks her phone, and I feel myself straighten without meaning to.
This is the part where she crooks a finger, makes me come in there under the innocent cover of work.
Or just tilts her head and looks at me through the glass like we’re the only two people in the building.
Instead, she slides her bag up her shoulder, tosses her hair, and walks right out. Past the coffee machine. Past the bays. Past… me.
No hesitation. No pause. No look. The door rattles on its hinges as it swings shut behind her, and you could hear a spark plug drop.
“Damn,” Caleb whispers.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just stand there with a greasy rag clenched in my fist, feeling stupid and hot.
“She didn’t even—” Pete starts, then thinks better of it.
“Back to work,” I say, and it comes out flatter than I want. I clear my throat. “Now.”
They scatter. I bend into the Deere again, plant both hands, and order my brain to behave. It doesn’t.
Because of course she’d do that. Of course, she’d walk in here looking like the fucking temptation she is, knowing damn well what it would do to me. Knowing she’s been dominating my thoughts. I drag a hand down my face, laughing once under my breath.
She’s good. Too damn good. Walks in, lights the place on fire, and strolls out like she didn’t just send every man in here straight to hell. Doesn’t look at me once. Doesn’t have to. She knows I’m watching.
And that’s the thing about Adrienne Slade, she doesn’t play fair. Never has. She knows exactly how to wind me up and leave me standing here like an idiot, jaw tight, heart hammering, pretending I don’t give a shit.
But I’m not mad about it. Hell no. I’m impressed. Two can play this game.
Next time I see her, I won’t give her a damn thing to feed off. No looks. No smirks. No reaction. Let her wonder. Let her feel what it’s like when I stop chasing.
Because the truth is, I already know how this ends. I’ll catch her watching me, pretending she’s not, and that’s when I’ll move. Nice and slow. Make her feel every ounce of payback she earned today.
My pulse kicks just thinking about it. That taboo thrill curls low in my gut.
I shake my head, still grinning like an idiot as I reach for the wrench again.
“Yeah,” I mutter, laughing quietly to myself. “You’re so fucked, man.”
By quitting time, I’ve done about ten percent of a day’s work and spent the other ninety trying not to think about her. Every time I blink, she’s there. Laughing behind that glass. Crossing those legs. Walking out without so much as a glance as her hips swayed a little more than normal.
By the time the guys pack up, I’m done pretending I’m getting anything else accomplished.
I flip the lights, tell Pete to lock up, and head out.
Normally, I’d stay late, make sure everything’s ready for the morning, but I can’t stand being in that shop another second.
Not when the smell of her perfume still clings to the office.
The drive home’s quick, but my brain won’t shut up. Every fucking thought is a memory of her mouth, her laugh, that damn dress. By the time I hit my driveway, I’m half-hard and fully frustrated.
I start stripping the second I get home, heading straight for a cold shower. It doesn’t help. So I grab a beer and head out to the back porch.
The sky is turning that soft, pinky orange over the pasture, the horses still grazing. It should be peaceful, but it isn’t. Because my phone’s sitting on the railing beside me, and I’ve checked it so many times it ought to file a restraining order against myself.
Play it cool, Bescher. Make her sweat.
That’s what I keep telling myself. Be the one who doesn’t cave first. Let her come to you. Except every time I take a sip of beer, I picture her leaning against Dolly’s desk again, lips glossed and smiling, and the idea of waiting feels impossible.
I pick up the phone. Stare at the last messages between us about the Mustang.
I type out a message.
Me: Want to come by?
No, too much of a booty call. Delete.
I try again.
Me: Dinner?
Too informal. Delete.
Me: Forget about the kiss yet?
Jesus. Delete.
I drop the phone facedown on the table, lean back, and close my eyes. The crickets chirp around me. I tell myself I’m better than this. That I’m a grown man who can control his urges.
I lasted three minutes.
I snatch the phone back up, thumb hovering.
Screw it. Life’s too damn short.
Me: You want to come by for dinner? I’m cooking, my treat.
Simple. No emojis. No games.