Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
But over the next several days, Riley settled into The Pit with a speed that surprised everybody except me. The mechanics figured her out fast because they were practical. They didn’t care how old somebody was, where they came from, or what they looked like. Only whether you knew what the fuck you were doing. And Riley sure as fuck did.
She caught problems others missed, diagnosed issues before they became expensive disasters, and somehow managed to do so without making anyone feel stupid in the process. By the end of the third day, men who’d been turning wrenches longer than she’d been alive had stopped watching her work with skepticism. They were asking questions, seeking second opinions, and trusting her judgment. Respect came hard in a garage full of racers and mechanics. Riley earned it the old-fashioned way—with skill, consistency, and a work ethic that made it damn near impossible not to admire her.
Watching it happen did something strange to me. Every time one of the guys came away from a conversation with her looking impressed, I felt a surge of satisfaction. When she solved a problem that had somebody scratching their head, I found myself fighting a grin.
The woman had already become part of the place. She fit into the rhythm of The Pit so naturally that it felt like she’d always been there. The fact that she belonged there in grease-stained jeans, with a wrench in one hand and a sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue, only made the situation worse for me because every day she seemed to find a new way to get under my skin.
I couldn’t stop looking for her. I’d walk into the garage first thing in the morning, and my eyes would immediately search the bays until I found her. If I came out of my office after dealing with one of the hundred headaches involved in running the place, I’d instinctively check where she was before doing anything else.
Sometimes I’d catch myself standing in the middle of the shop watching her work without realizing how long I’d been there. The sight of her bent over an engine with her sleeves pushed up, grease smudged across her forearm, and complete focus written across her face was becoming a serious problem.
Riley approached machines the same way I did. She listened to them. Paid attention. Respected them.
Most people saw a motorcycle or a race car. Riley saw a system of moving parts that needed to work together properly. Every time I watched her diagnose a problem, my attraction dug a little deeper.
It didn’t help that she seemed completely unaware of how much damage she was capable of doing just by existing in my line of sight. The fitted tank tops she wore because of the Florida heat should’ve been illegal. The jeans she worked in hugged every curve I spent entirely too much time thinking about. My imagination often got away from me, turning simple glimpses of Riley into vivid, explicit fantasies I had no business indulging.
She’d bend over the hood of a car, and suddenly, I’d be picturing her bent over my workbench instead, those tight jeans around her ankles, her ass bare under my hands while I fucked her deep enough to make her scream my name. Or I’d catch her licking her lower lip in concentration, and I’d imagine that same tongue sliding slowly along the length of my cock, her dark eyes locked on mine as she took every inch of me down her throat. Each fantasy made me wonder what she’d taste like, how tight her pussy would feel wrapped around me, and how fast I could make her come undone beneath my mouth and hands.
My body responded to her with an enthusiasm that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. It didn’t matter how many times I reminded myself that she worked for me, lived upstairs, and clearly had enough problems already. The attraction kept building anyway, fed by every smile, sarcastic remark, and glimpse of the woman she let people see when she forgot to be guarded.
Because that part never changed.
Riley talked about plenty of things when we worked together. The problem was that the stories were always surface-level and never got close to the present. The moment a conversation drifted anywhere near why she’d ended up stranded in Crossbend or what she’d been doing before she arrived, she redirected so smoothly that most people never would’ve noticed it. But I did.
I also caught that she still tensed around strangers, scanned a room when somebody new walked in, and carried herself like somebody expecting trouble. It bothered me more than I wanted to admit because every time I caught a flash of wariness, I was reminded that there was something out there she wasn’t telling me about.
At least she wasn’t looking like she wanted to run anymore.