even get started.
But here, in this moment, nothing had changed. She felt as she had seven years earlier, coming here when she knew he’d be alone. Her heart hammered in her chest, sucked the moisture from her mouth.
Did he feel as locked into the moment as she did? His blue eyes held hers spellbound, several emotions flashing across them. He blinked, then gestured for her to come in and headed toward the sink in the back corner. “Would you like a drink?”
Did he drink alcohol nowadays?
“Sure. What do you have?” She followed him, relieved that he hadn’t made an excuse for her to have to leave. Clearly, he was as busy as he’d been back then, trying to cram two jobs into one life. One day. She’d always admired his work ethic.
He pointed to the small fridge as he headed to the industrial sink in the corner. “Water, soda, Gatorade. Help yourself.”
He still had the confident, easy gait, and she still wanted to run her finger down the indent of his spine where it dipped down at his tailbone and disappeared into the waistband of his pants. Once they had crossed that line, she had often acted on the impulse. She had touched all of him, had experienced the freedom to touch a beautiful man. Indulging in whatever her heart desired had been new, delicious, decadent.
He used his elbow to turn on the water and pumped several shots of soap from the dispenser onto his palms. She opened the fridge, bending down to see what lurked within. A leftover sub that smelled of Italian dressing. Several cans of soda. No beer. She remembered that he didn’t drink because it reminded him of his father. Liquor had been his dad’s downfall. Made him weak and loose and undisciplined. Raleigh hadn’t wanted to be any of those things. His expression had always grown disgusted and hard when he talked about his father. She’d only glimpsed him once, when Raleigh had grabbed her and ducked around the corner of a building. The man had been wiry, tanned, with shaggy blond hair. An older, rumpled version of Raleigh.
She removed a bottle of water. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
He still washed his hands as meticulously as before. Was it wrong to drink in the way his biceps flexed and the muscles moved across his back? It felt right and torturous at the same time. He dried his hands as he approached where she leaned against the counter, bringing a fresh citrus scent.
When he reached her, she gestured toward his cheek. “You have some grease…right there.”
She wanted to take the wadded-up towel and wipe it away, but that would be wildly inappropriate. So she touched her own cheek, and he followed her motions.
“No, the other cheek—here, just let me.” She laughed nervously as her fingers rubbed along his broad cheekbone through the thick paper towel. “I must feel like your mom.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s right. I’m so sorry.” She was inches from him, the towel still pressed against his skin.
He touched her wrist, guiding her hand down, away. “Nothing about you reminds me of a mom.”
“I…suppose not.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t spit on the towel, right?”
He was trying to lighten the awkward moment, something she was grateful for. “I always cringe when I see a woman doing that. Here.”
He took the bottle she held out and wandered over to the cherry-red Mustang that he was working on. One of the newer models. He leaned against the front quarter panel and patted the space next to him as an invitation.
She moved closer, wishing she could ask him to turn off half of the lights. But that would make her sound either self-conscious (she was) or flirtatious (she wasn’t). Even if she did drink him in, draped so languidly against the hot car, taking a long chug of water. Appreciating the way the fabric tightened on his biceps. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, and the angle made his neck look long.
He set the bottle on the roof as she neared. “Like old times, huh?”
She couldn’t help but bite her lower lip and nod. I wish it was. “Except—”
“It’s not. I know.” The light in his eyes dimmed. “Well, I haven’t changed.” He swept his hands out to encompass the garage. “Still here, skulking around like a chop-shop operator, as Pax likes to say.”
She slid her fingers along the seam of the hood. “More like working your butt off trying to make your life better.”
He glanced around. “Yeah, trying.”
And not succeeding—that’s