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I moved closer to the open hood, stopping beside him. He pointed to a section near the front, not touching me, just close enough that the heat coming off him was distracting.

“This belt’s worn down more than it should be,” he said. “And your tensioner’s looking rough. That noise you heard is probably coming from there.”

I squinted at the engine like I knew what any of that meant. “Tension has a way of making you look rough.”

“Basically, it’s not the end of the world.” He winked. The scoundrel.

Relief hit me so hard I almost grabbed his arm. Which was the excuse I would’ve used if I’d been brave enough to act on the impulse. “You just got significantly hotter.”

At least I wasn’t crying. Go me.

He leaned one hip against the car and folded the rag in his hands. “Glad I could help.”

I felt my face go up in flames and hid behind a dry tone. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m emotionally vulnerable and wearing a skirt from a thrift store.”

His gaze flicked over me then, like a friend assessing my outfit instead of someone with lecherous thoughts. “Looks good on you.”

That shut me up for half a second because part of me wanted Deadeye to look at me with interest. Though, oddly enough, I liked the fact he hadn’t.

The contradictory thoughts hurt my surviving brain cell.

Recovering, I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “You say that to all your financially strapped customers?”

“Only the ones wearing pleated skirts.”

The shop noise filled the space for a beat. Somewhere behind us, a car horn chirped. I adjusted my sunglasses where they rested on my head and tried to remember how to speak like a person.

“So,” I said, “how bad is bad?”

Deadeye’s expression gentled a little. “It needs fixing. I’d rather do it before it gets worse.”

So would I, but if you’re not offering rock-bottom prices, I’m completely screwed.

I looked back at the engine, then at my car, then finally at him. “And if my budget is sort of pathetic and held together by delusional optimism?”

He didn’t make me say I was broke, which I appreciated more than I wanted to admit. I was fighting to hold on to my identity, while my father was fighting to sanitize it. There were times when I thought about giving in and letting him fix me. That would be so much easier than constantly struggling financially.

But some stubborn part of me refused to disappear inside suits and ties, no matter how expensive the price tags were.

It was the same conversation I’d had with Calvin that day outside the laundromat, which made me recall what I’d asked him.

You ever feel like you’re just…waiting? Like for your real life to start?

That feeling still sat with me, and why was I suddenly so morose? Jesus. I’d gone from panicked about the cost of repairs, to horny, to depressed in the span of forty minutes.

If I could afford a therapist, my ass would be speed dialing them right now.

Wiping his hands again, Deadeye jerked his chin toward the office. “I can work with you.”

Suspicion came naturally when you were raised by my father. Kindness usually arrived with an invoice demanding a part of your soul. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can fix your ride, and we can figure out the money part without you needing to fake your own death.”

A laugh slipped out, startling me. He was too easy to talk to and spoke my brand of humor. “That was actually my backup plan.”

Deadeye leaned an inch closer, talking to me like we were old friends. “Yeah, Calvin warned me you were funny when stressed.”

My throat tightened a little at that. Calvin. Sweet, loyal Calvin, who had probably said it with affection. “He’s a traitor.”