“Hey. Need a ride?”
Nick slowed his stride and turned toward the melodic, feminine voice. The small SUV was parked against the curb, the passenger window down, the driver leaning over the console to peer at him from within.
Corinne McCain. What the hell was she doing here? Had she seen him come out of the station? Or worse, get hauled away?
“No thanks. I’m good.” He started walking again. He wasn’t in the mood for company or good deeds, especially not from her.
A vehicle door opened and closed behind him. Within seconds, he sensed her closing in. He was always aware of his surroundings, but he was particularly sensitive to her presence. That was one reason he tried to avoid her whenever possible. Extended family gatherings were brutal—and not just because she looked at him like he was some kind of thousand-piece jigsaw she wanted to put together.
Too many pieces missing for that.
A whiff of that subtle, clean fragrance hit his nose, the one he associated solely with her. It smelled like sun-dried laundry and night-blooming jasmine. Cool sheets and hot skin and—
“How about I give you one anyway?” she said, falling into step beside him.
He kept his head down. “My place isn’t far.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to your place, are you?”
He stopped so suddenly that she took a step past him and had to double back, placing herself directly in front of him. This close, he could see the light smattering of freckles over her slightly upturned button nose and the tiniest hints of lines at the corners of her pretty blue eyes. Rather than detract from her beauty, they added to it.
It pissed him off.
He stared down at her and curled one corner of his mouth up in a smirk. “Oh? Know where I’m going, do you?”
Big blue eyes peered up at him, the color of a perfect summer sky. A blush was barely visible in the streetlight, turning her peaches-and-cream skin into a lovely rose gold. When he’d first met Corinne all those years ago, he’d thought she was attractive. As a mature woman, she was stunning.
“No, but I can guess,” she said. “You’re going back to the fairgrounds to get your bike, right?”
He narrowed his eyes. Beautiful and intelligent and feisty as she was, he didn’t like people knowing his business. “Are you stalking me or something?”
The blush deepened, but he had to give her credit. She stood her ground even if she did shift her weight from one foot to the other. “Kind of, but not in a creepy way. I saw what happened earlier, and I thought you could use a ride.”
She’d seen him get arrested, and what? Sat, parked across the street from the police station for hours, waiting for him to emerge, just so she could offer him a ride? Nobody did that, not without a damn good reason. He had too much on his mind to try to figure out possible ulterior motives.
“Thanks, but I don’t.”
She huffed. It was cute. He added it to his list of things that irritated him.
“Don’t be obstinate,” she said. “Just get in the fucking car, okay?”
Hearing the expletive simultaneously made him smile and turned him on. He had a thing for foul words spoken from sweet lips. Made him wonder what other dirty things her mouth could do.
Nope, not going there.
“Why?” he asked, forcing his ill-advised interest into something he was more comfortable with—namely, suspicion. In his experience, people were rarely altruistic for altruism’s sake.
She rolled her eyes and exhaled. Once again, his mind went places it shouldn’t, conjuring images of putting her over his knee, pulling down her pants, and smacking her shapely dancer’s ass. He wondered what she would do if he did. Had fantasized about it often in fact. In his private mental viewing room, she liked it a little rough and dirty.
Jesus.
“Why not?” she countered, exasperation lacing her tone.
When he said nothing, she raised her hands. “Fine. Be that way. Walk five miles. See if I care. Forgive me for trying to do something nice.”
She stalked back to her car. Her hips swayed from side to side, looking phenomenal in those faded blue jeans, drawing his eye and pulling him along for the ride. Before he realized what he was doing, he was standing next to her vehicle. She glanced at him with a raised brow.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He should turn around, walk away, and let her think he was an ungrateful ass. Most people did—if they bothered to think of him at all. But, damn, he was tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stuffing his hands into his jeans. “If the offer’s still open, a ride would be great, thanks.”
Her face softened, and she nodded. No smart-ass comeback. No taunt. No smirk as she tossed a high-end women’s sports bag and a box of tissues from the passenger seat into the back and made room for him.
He opened the door and folded his body in, glad that the seat was already pushed back so his knees weren’t up around his chest. For a moment, he wondered what long-legged fucker had sat in the seat before him. As far as he knew, she wasn’t seeing anyone. There was that guy with the Audi about a year ago, but she’d kicked him to the curb pretty quick. Good thing too. The guy was one of the suits at Dumas Industries. A real player in his white-collar, hedge-fund world.
Not that Nick had been creeping on her or anything, but garages were like bars. Guys talked, and he’d learned the value of listening a long time ago.
Maybe there was someone new he hadn’t heard about yet. Her sister was forever trying to fix her up with one tool or another.
Nick pushed back the wave of something dark and jagged that accompanied the thought. Who Corinne McCain went out with, fucked, or gave a ride to was of no concern to him.
He concentrated on the surrounding space instead. The interior was neat and clean, but not spotless. A tiny crystal angel hung from the rearview mirror. A stack of hair ties was wrapped around the gear shift. A massive stainless steel travel mug sat in the console cupholder. The space smelled like her. Fresh with a subtle hint of floral. Dryer sheets maybe.
The car made a sound of protest when she put it into gear. He winced. As a mechanic, he knew it wasn’t good. He leaned toward the center of the car, frowning when he caught sight of the Check Engine light glowing.
“Your Check Engine light is on,” he said.
She checked her mirrors and pulled away from the curb. “I’m aware.”
“Have you had it looked at?”
“Not yet.”
“You should.”
“I will.”
“Do it sooner rather than later.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “If it’s not flashing, it’s not urgent, right?”
He laughed. “Who told you that?”
She shrugged. He wondered if the armchair mechanic doling out piss-poor advice was the same long-legged fucker who’d been in the passenger seat before him.
Not my business.
Except it pissed him off, the same way any professional would be pissed off at someone else spewing potentially harmful mistruths.
“Whoever it was, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Do you have something I can write on?”
A slim, manicured hand waved gracefully toward the glove box as she shot him a questioning look. “Should be a pad and pen in there.”
He opened the glove box and rooted through, pulling out a travel pack of tissues, a leather foldable with insurance and registration, vehicle manual, six lip balms, a tire gauge, and a mini tube of hand cream before he found the small spiral notebook and a pen. He quickly scribbled his name and his phone number, then ripped out the page and slipped it into the cupholder.
“What’s that?”
“My number. Give me a call before you bring it into the shop. I’ll take a look.”
She frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Just trying to do something nice,” he said, throwing her words back at her.
Her lips quirked at the corners. “Touché.”
Copyright © 2024 Abbie Zanders
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