Page 5 of Crew Girl

“You were riding on the sidewalk.” He checked to see if any lightbulbs went on. In Massachusetts, riding a bike on the sidewalk was illegal in business districts. Even if it was a stretch to call Eagle’s Cove’s main drag—a mishmash of overpriced boutiques, cafes, and discount stores selling beach supplies—a business district.

No lightbulbs so, to be helpful, and because sparring with this girl was strangely fun, he added, “On a blind turn.”

She looked away, meaning, she got it now. She hit him.

He pulled the bike off the truck and flipped it upside down to rest on its handlebars. “Your chain’s slipped.” He glanced back. “You know how to fix it?”

She gave an exasperated sigh that said, No, idiot, I do not.

The chain and gear-change mechanism were begging for some WD40. He reached into the truck to grab his toolbox only to nearly crack heads with her. She fell back on the tarps and gave a frustrated growl. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you,” she grumbled when he held out a hand to pull her back up.

She begrudgingly accepted the offer, but when her hand touched his, her eyes shot to his face. So she’d felt it, too. The energy shift from combat mode to… you’re not as bad as I first thought. Her cheeks turned a cute shade of crimson when he got his hand back.

He stood aside, so she could scooch off the back of the truck. She didn’t move. Like she found it enjoyable being a few feet above him. “I need to get under the tarp.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Is that where you store the bodies of your other hit-and-run victims?”

“Busted,” he said, then, because time really was against him, tipped his head toward her bike. “I need to get the toolbox you’re standing on so I can fix your bike.” It was an easy fix, popping a chain back onto a derailleur. A squirt of oil would have to serve as the apology she wanted to squeeze out of him.

She jumped off the lip of the truck, and though she’d only given him a passing glance as she did it, he saw a chink in her armor. Something that suggested she knew she was being scratchy but was actually mad about something else. Maybe somewhere beneath her tough-girl ’tude was someone who needed a friend. He got it. But she was a tourist, and he had places to go, things to do.

He rummaged around in the toolbox picking out what he needed to check the cable tension and tighten the limit screws if necessary.

“Do you work here?”

He pointed at the logo on the side of the truck. “What gave it away?”

She didn’t rise to the bait. “So, you’re clearly a local.”

He didn’t answer. Yes. Clearly.

“What do people actually do here?”

Work. Enjoy a little free time. Dream about leaving. “We have clambakes. Tubing. Fudge. If that’s your thing.” He glanced up at her in time to see her pulling a face. Not a fudge person. He waved her over. “See the drive train?” He gave it a spray of oil, rubbed it in with a cloth, then did it again, wiping it clean this time. Cleanish. “You’ve got to clean it or the chain’ll keep slipping.”

She squatted down beside him to watch while he slipped it back into place. She smelled good—like honeysuckle and oranges and sunshine. He was going to plead the Fifth if anyone accused him of checking parts of the bike that were perfectly fine. When some of her hair slipped over his shoulder and brushed his arm, his body told him all about it.

He tossed the Allen keys and oil into the toolbox, flipped the lid shut, and stood. “That should do it.”

To his surprise, she smiled. “You didn’t have to do that. Thanks.” She gave him one of those waist-height waves people did when they weren’t sure if they should shake hands. “I’m Teagan. I just moved here.”

His heart did this weird lifting thing. Like it was happy or something. Before he could think of a good response, like his name, he saw his dad climbing out of the pit. He needed to get out of here. “I gotta go,” he said, lifting the toolbox into the back of the truck. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, he called over his shoulder, “Learn to fix your bike. Next time you hit someone, you can fix it yourself.”

She snorted, made a point of giving him a wide berth as he reversed the truck out of the lot and onto the street.

Pulling away, he glanced in the rearview mirror. For a safety check. There she was, cupping her hands to her mouth and shouting, “You hit me!”

He laughed. For real this time.

If there was a universe in which he had time to date? He’d find out where she lived and leave a box of fudge on her porch.

JOSH

Josh Regis didn’t take his status as top dog at Easton Prep lightly. Never had. Never would. Mostly because it rocked being him.

Especially now he was back with his crew.

Eight by land. Eight by sea.