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)
Those were all minor issues I’d planned to fix before my life had imploded.
Irritated, my mouth moved before my brain caught up. “Yeah, I know. The rear alignment’s also compensating for the suspension pull, but none of that compares to the real problem. The timing chain snapped and took the snout of the billet crank and half the lobes off the custom roller cam with it.”
It felt like the whole garage went still. Grinders powered down. Engines on the dynos quieted. And a couple of mechanics paused mid-motion, tools frozen in their hands.
Those dark green eyes scanned me, like he was reading every inch of my soul the same way he’d assessed my car. His broad shoulders squared a fraction more, and something intensely focused settled over his expression, like a switch had flipped.
“Where’d you learn to diagnose like that?”
I shrugged, trying to play it casual even though my pulse was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the situation I’d found myself in. “I’ve spent more time under hoods than most guys twice my age.”
His head tilted as he continued to study me. “With that rundown and the parts on this car, there’s gotta be more to it.”
“I worked in a racing garage,” I admitted. “But my skills don’t do me much good when I can’t afford the parts I need to get my Mustang running again.”
His jaw flexed, and the air between us suddenly felt heavy with something I didn’t have the energy or the emotional bandwidth to name. I’d never had a man look at me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve, and certainly not with heat in their eyes. But now wasn’t the time to explore whatever this was, no matter how many butterflies were swirling in my belly.
“Ryot McCoy,” he murmured. “I run this place.”
His introduction earned him a few odd looks that I didn’t understand.
“Riley Mercer.”
Ryot wiped his hands one more time, then tossed the rag onto a nearby workbench without breaking eye contact. Then he said the last thing I expected.
“I’m not gonna quote you a repair bill right now. I have a better idea. We’re short a good tech. You clearly know your shit. Come work here. I’ll give you a bay, tools, and the parts to fix your Mustang. You work off what you need, and we’ll go from there.”
My mouth opened, closed, then opened again. I swallowed hard, searching his face for the catch, but all I found was an intense gleam in his eyes and a faint trace of grease on his strong jaw.
“You’re serious,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
His lips quirked into the smallest hint of a smile. “Dead serious.”
I stood there, every instinct screaming at me to run while the exhausted part of me wondered if I’d just stumbled into the first good thing to happen since Shawn destroyed my life.
3
GAUGE
Riley lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m just passing through.”
Maybe she really had meant to roll through Crossbend, get her Mustang fixed, and disappear before anyone remembered her face. But the second the sentence left her mouth, my instincts dug in hard.
I’d spent most of my life listening for the thing beneath the noise—the shift in pressure before something blew apart. Riley had a wrong vibration running under all that sass and talent, and I didn’t like it. Whatever had put that tightness in her eyes had already gotten too close to something my gut had decided was mine.
The Pit raged around us with its usual afternoon chaos. A grinder screamed from the fabrication bay, throwing sparks in bright orange arcs against scarred concrete. Somewhere near the dyno room, a bike barked hard enough to rattle the glass in my office window.
I could usually track every piece of my shop without needing to look. I knew which mechanic had a bad habit of leaving a torque wrench two inches off its marked spot, which apprentice was about to strip a bolt because he rushed when watched, and which customer was going to argue over a bill before they opened their mouth. Today, I was tracking all of that and still watching Riley, as if my attention had been welded to her.
She looked worn down in a way that pissed me off for reasons I hadn’t earned the right to feel yet. Dust clung to the knees of her jeans and the worn leather of her boots. Her black hair fell loose around her shoulders, a little tangled. A faint smear of grease marked the side of her hand from when she’d checked the Mustang herself, and there was something about seeing it there that hit me harder than it should have.
Most women who walked into The Pit avoided touching anything dirty unless they had to. Riley had cut me off before I could finish diagnosing her car because she already knew exactly what was wrong with it.