Chapter 1 #2
I pull into the visitors’ lot and spot a small blue sedan parked crookedly near the staff entrance.
Molly is standing next to it. Rick’s tow truck hasn’t arrived yet, so I park beside her car and get out.
The first thing I notice is the smell. Hot oil.
I crouch near the front bumper and spot a dark patch on the pavement beneath the engine.
Not enough for a catastrophic leak, but enough to worry me.
I straighten and peer through the windshield. There’s a travel mug in the cupholder, a stack of picture books on the passenger seat, and a paper chain made of brightly colored construction paper hanging from the rearview mirror.
A child’s handwriting covers every link.
MISS MOLLY IS NICE.
MISS MOLLY GIVES GOOD HUGS.
MISS MOLLY MAKES SCHOOL FUN.
One yellow strip simply says:
I LOVE YOU.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Molly walks next to the car. Today she’s wearing a sunshine-yellow dress patterned with tiny white flowers.
It reaches below her knees, modest and soft, with short sleeves that flutter in the breeze.
Her long brown hair is pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, and colorful letters dangle from her ears.
A pair of white sneakers complete the outfit.
She looks young. Younger than twenty-five. Too young to be carrying the strain I see on her face.
The cardboard box in her arms begins to tip, and she tightens her arms around it. I’m already moving before I think about it.
“Let me get that.”
Molly jumps. The box slips. I catch the bottom before it hits the ground, my hands closing over the cardboard inches below hers. She looks up at me with wide green eyes. Not hazel. Not brown. I’ve never been close enough to notice before.
“Grayson?” she asks.
Her voice carries the same softness I remember, but there’s something else beneath it. Surprise, certainly. Maybe relief.
“Carter called me.”
“Oh.” Her smile appears, hesitant but genuine. “I told him he didn’t have to bother you.”
“He didn’t bother me.”
That’s a lie, but not for the reason she thinks.
“I was going to call a repair shop after the children left,” she says.
“I own a repair shop.”
Her smile grows slightly. “I know.”
“Then you were going to call the wrong one?”
A small crease forms between her brows. Then she laughs. It’s quiet and warm, nothing like the woman’s laugh over the phone.
“I suppose I was,” she says.
I take the box from her arms. It’s lighter than I expect, filled with laminated papers, plastic bins, and a stuffed rabbit wearing a miniature graduation cap.
“What happened to the car?”
“The light came on about halfway here, and it started…” She gestures uncertainly. “Wobbling?”
“Shaking?”
“Yes.”
“Did it lose power?”
“A little. I think.”
“Any smoke?”
“No.”
“Strange smells?”
She bites her bottom lip as she thinks. “Something smelled hot.”
“Oil.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not good.”
Her face falls. I should offer reassurance. I deal with panicked customers every day, and I know the speech by heart. I’ll take a look. It might be minor. Don’t worry until we know. Instead, I find myself studying her.
There are faint shadows beneath her eyes, partially hidden by makeup. Her smile doesn’t quite reach them. A thin silver chain circles her neck, and Carter’s engagement ring sparkles on her left hand. She catches me looking at it and folds her fingers into her palm.
“How long did you drive after the light came on?” I ask.
“Five minutes, maybe. The school was close, and I didn’t want to pull over with all the traffic.”
“You should have.”
“I know.”
“If the oil pressure drops, five minutes can ruin an engine.”
“I’m sorry.”
The immediate apology makes me feel like an ass. I shift the box beneath one arm. “Don’t apologize. Just pull over next time.”
“All right.”
“Call me.”
Her eyes meet mine. “You?”
“Yes.”
“Not Carter?”
I glance toward her car. There are too many possible answers to that question, and none I can give without telling her about the woman I heard in the background.
“If your car is having trouble,” I say carefully, “call the mechanic.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “That makes sense.”
“Usually does.”
She laughs again.
The sound does something uncomfortable to the center of my chest.
I clear my throat. “Where do you want this?”
“My classroom. But you don’t have to carry it. I can—”
“I’ve got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Molly, I rebuild engines for a living. I can manage a box full of construction paper.”
“The rabbit is heavier than he looks.”
I glance at the stuffed animal. “I’ll take my chances.”
The tow truck pulls into the school parking lot, the engine rumbling low.
We move to the car together. She leans in through the open driver’s door to grab something from the console, and I reach past her for the keys still swaying from the ignition.
Our arms brush first, then our bodies. The space is tight between the doorframe and the seat, forcing us closer than either of us planned.
My chest presses against her back. Her ass nestles right against my hips.
We both freeze.
“Shit—sorry,” I mutter, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. The door’s wedged against my shoulder, and she’s twisted awkwardly, one hand still reaching for the keys. My fingers close over hers on the keyring. Warm skin. Delicate bones. A spark shoots straight through me.
Her breath catches. I feel it ghost across my forearm, hot and quick, like a whisper not meant for me.
She shifts, trying to make room, but the movement only grinds her softer curves harder against me.
My body reacts instantly—blood rushing south, thickening, pressing insistently against the seam of my jeans right where her dress has ridden up just a fraction.
Fuck.
I’m rock hard in seconds, the heat of her seeping through our clothes.
She’s breathing faster now, little puffs that brush my wrist and send goosebumps racing up my arm.
I can smell her—lavender, shampoo, and something warmer, feminine, that makes my cock twitch against her.
She has to feel it. There’s no way she doesn’t.
“Grayson…” Her voice is a husky murmur, half protest, half invitation. Her fingers flex under mine on the keys, but she doesn’t yank away. Instead, her back arches the tiniest bit, pressing those perfect curves more firmly into me.
I swallow hard, my free hand bracing on the roof of the car to keep from gripping her waist. My mind floods with images I shouldn’t be having in a damn elementary school parking lot: sliding my palm under that skirt, feeling the heat between her thighs, hearing her moan my name while I rock against her just like this.
Thinking this way about my son’s fiancée should put me back in prison.
“You’re stuck,” I rasp, voice low and rough near her ear. My stubble grazes her temple. Her breath hitches again. Every shallow inhale makes her breasts rise against my arm, and I’m throbbing now, aching with how badly I want to grind forward, to let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
She turns her head just enough that our eyes lock. Hers are dark, pupils blown wide. “So are you,” she whispers.
The tow truck horn feels like it was a lifetime ago.
Right now there’s only the tight, heated cage of this car door, her body molded to mine, and the undeniable pulse of arousal thickening between us.
I don’t know how the hell we’re getting out of this, but goddamn, I don’t want to move.
Not yet. Not when every breath she takes feels like it’s pulling me deeper under.
Shit. This is not good.