The garage door is open, sunlight pooling across the floor in golden ribbons. Dust motes dance in the air, caught in the glow, and Mason’s bent over the hood of a black ‘68 Camaro like it’s something sacred. His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, grease streaking the sinew of his forearms. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw, and sweat clings to the back of his neck, darkening the collar of his shirt.
My breath catches.
It’s not the first time he’s knocked the wind out of me, but it might be the first time I don’t try to hide it. I just watch. Let it settle in my chest, all this want curling slow and sure beneath my skin.
He glances up before I even make a sound, like he felt me coming.
“How’s our boy?” he asks, voice warm and gravel-rich, dimple flashing like a sucker punch.
My knees go a little soft.
“Sound asleep,” I manage. “No sign of a nap strike today either.”
I start walking slowly toward the car, fingertips brushing along the edge of the driver’s side door as I circle it. “You know, now that I think about it, there hasn’t been a single nap strike since I got here.”
Mason chuckles, the kind of laugh that’s all breath and low vibration. He wipes his hands on a rag, then scrubs the back of his neck—sheepish and smug in the same breath. His weight shifts subtly, spine straightening, chest opening. Confidence and vulnerability bleeding together in his posture.
“It’s all you, Trouble. You’ve got the magic touch.”
Warmth blooms behind my ribs. I fight a smile, but it wins. “Maybe,” I murmur, circling around to the workbench.
The space smells like oil and sunlight, warm metal and the faintest trace of cedar from the flannel I know he tossed on the back of a stool earlier. The tools are arranged in neat, utilitarian rows—wrenches, pliers, socket sets—lined up with the kind of quiet precision that says Mason needs things to be where he left them.
I trail my fingers along the wooden edge of the bench, my pulse thudding a little too loud in my ears.
Behind me, he shifts—arms folding slowly over his chest, his weight easing back onto the front bumper of the car. I can feel his gaze drag over the back of my thighs. It lands hot and unhurried. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Lookin’ for something?” he asks, voice low and amused, like he’s already halfway to a smile.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze with a slow grin. “A Phillips screwdriver. I need to tighten the, uh, baby gates in the living room.”
He smothers his laugh, mouth twitching, dimples just barely breaking the surface. His arms stay folded, but his knuckles flex where they tuck into his biceps. “Third drawer from the bottom. Right next to you.”
I reach down slowly, fingers grazing the cool metal drawer pull. As I bend, the hem of my sundress inches up, a breath of air skating across the bare skin underneath.
A beat.
Then a low, wrecked groan.
“Are you trying to take me out, Trouble?” His voice is closer, rougher.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. I bite the inside of my cheek, heart hammering, and glance over my shoulder again.
His gaze is locked on my ass, jaw tight, eyes hungry, like a man starving quietly and trying not to show it.
Then I feel it. His hands, large and deliberate, sliding up the backs of my thighs. One slow sweep, then another. His fingers curve around the bare skin of my ass, and he goes still.
So do I.
Then his voice, low and lethal, rasps against the base of my spine. “No panties, Trouble?”
My breath catches, and my stomach flips.
He squeezes gently, reverently, his thumbs grazing the hem of my dress, pushing it higher.
“This all for me?” he murmurs, each word a slow drag of heat.
I don’t answer right away. Because I’m too busy swallowing the thrill that zips down my spine. The feel of him—broad and controlled behind me, his hands like brands, his voice like a promise I’m aching to hear again.
