I make it about thirty seconds before it eats at me. “Did I overstep?”
“Do you care?”
I push a hand through my still-damp hair.
You’re a dick, Slate. Just tell her what you really think.
“Yeah.” My voice drops. “More than I should.”
Her finger pokes my thigh, and I catch it in my palm before she can pull away.
“You might want everyone to think you’re an emotional vacuum . . .” she says, smiling now. “But I know better.”
It’s a seed of hope that plants itself right outside, next to the walls I’ve erected to keep the very thing out.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
ASPEN
Emmett is elbow deep in Myrtle’s guts when I pull in after a shift that stretched too long. Walking up the driveway, I find him muttering to himself, grease smeared up the length of his forearms. My pulse stutters, and not just because of the way the overhead light highlights the way his prominent veins bulge and pop as he twists whatever tool is buried in there with him.
He actually did it.
All week he’s made comments—asking questions about the Jeep, about my grandma, about what I remembered from riding shotgun as a kid with the windows down and country music blaring.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
And yet . . .
Here I am, standing stock-still while my heart does stupid things inside my chest.
“Caught red-handed,” I call out.
Emmett jerks upright, his habitual scowl fading to a sheepish grin when he sees me.
“I was just”—he nods toward Myrtle—“figuring out why she won’t start.”
It’s such a simple thing, but I’m not sure how to process it because it’s so damn sweet. And bent over an old Jeep in a black T-shirt with grease on his forearms?
Honestly . . . I’m in trouble.
His expression shifts the second he notices my smile fade.
The hood drops shut.
I cross the garage and plant my heel on the bumper, boosting myself onto the hood before he can start apologizing.
Emmett steps in close, bracketing one hand beside my hip as he leans over me.
“You’re mad.” His head drops, putting his mouth inches from my ear. A little lower and his forehead would be on my shoulder. “I should’ve asked.”
A beat passes before he lifts his head and adds, almost comically, “I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”
My lips twitch. “I’m not mad.”
My eyes drop to the grease streaking his knuckles . . . then trace slowly up the corded line of his forearm.
