SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,2

stepped out of the car, then approached the disabled vehicle, his leather soles clapping against the asphalt. “Can I help?”

The woman jerked straight, then glanced briefly his way, a black ball cap shadowing her face. “No need,” she called out, her second dismissive hand gesture now more like a swat. Her head turned back and she bent again.

He was a man, so he noticed her nice ass, then moved off the thought before he had to feel guilty about it. Sister. Women friends.

Further loosening the knot of his tie, he ventured closer. “Really,” he said. “I might be able to help. I took auto shop in high school.”

“Yeah? Me, too.”

That made him pause. Not the fact that she’d taken the elective, but the quality of her voice stirred something in him. It was low, a bit throaty, and someone he’d known a lifetime ago had lamented her “frogginess” until he’d managed to convince her that guys found it sexy.

That he found it sexy.

“Aren’t you going to help the young lady?” Mrs. Dowd called out. She wore her hair in a helmet of tight curls and colored it an impossible shade of red, just this side of rust.

“Sure,” Mad said easily, looking over at the elderly woman. Other cars backed up behind his, so he backtracked to activate his own hazard lights, his bigger vehicle protecting the broken-down clunker the damsel continued to fiddle with. He directed the vehicles to go around. “You doing well, Mrs. Dowd?”

“At the moment, the parking spaces in front of my store aren’t accessible,” she said testily. “Who should I complain to?”

“I’ll handle it,” he promised the older woman, striding forward.

“I’ll handle it,” the driver said, and she sounded almost as irritated as Mrs. Dowd.

Not that he assumed she couldn’t, but the old shopkeeper was giving him the evil eye, making Mad feel ten years old again. “Give me a chance,” he said.

He thought she muttered, “I gave you a chance,” but before he could interpret the meaning of that, she exclaimed, “Done,” and then straightened again, brushing the palms of her hands together.

She darted past him and inserted herself into the driver’s seat. Then he heard the car engine start up, followed by her triumphant little crow.

“Way to go,” he said. “I’ll get the hood.” He moved around to the front of the car and released the strut that propped it open. As the big metal piece clicked into place, he looked through her bug-splattered windshield.

Her hat was gone. Even through the scattered guts and gore—and he didn’t refer to what her leaving six years ago had done to him, though he could—Mad recognized the woman who’d come back to his town.

It felt like a sharp punch to the solar plexus, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. What. The. Hell.

Harper Hill?

So much for that sleep he craved. Because with Harper anywhere in his vicinity, he’d never get a wink of it.

Harper Hill. She saw Mad Kelly mouth her name, then approach the driver’s side of her car. Her hand automatically shot toward the passenger seat, found her ball cap, then jammed it on her head. She snagged the sunglasses that hung on her rearview mirror and slipped them on as well.

Camouflage. Protection.

Too late, because obviously he’d already recognized her, but the accessories would send the message she wasn’t feeling warm and friendly. That she was in a here-and-gone frame of mind.

Because she couldn’t ignore him completely, she cranked down the window.

Halfway.

“Thanks for the thought, but I really didn’t need help.” Suppressing a wince, she hoped her tone didn’t sound as cranky to him as it sounded to her.

“You didn’t need it, as you said.”

“Right. Coil wire. It shakes loose on occasion.” Many occasions. But the car continued to get her from place to place, so she wasn’t complaining. “Well, good seeing you.”

With a long finger, he hooked his own sunglasses, propped on top of his short dark hair, and brought them down over his eyes. The mirrored lenses reflected her image back to her, and she wanted to groan at the askew hat, the messy long braid hanging down one shoulder, the bit of ratty ribbed sleeveless top she wore beneath the equally ratty overalls she’d had forever.

Harper cleared her throat. “Gotta go.”

“I don’t think so,” Mad said.

Now he was telling her not to leave? Six years too late?

He glanced along his right shoulder—wide right shoulder, obviously he hadn’t slacked off on workouts—and aimed his dark glasses toward the rear of her car. “You’ve