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c h a p t e r
Nine
I kicked at random pebbles as I strode up to Pete’s Garage. I had no idea if we were doing any of the things on my list today. All Trace had said was, “We’ll hang out for a while and see what happens.”
That sounded ominous to me.
Any number of things could happen.
We could play Yahtzee or end up egging someone’s house or—
I really needed to stop thinking before my thoughts moved on to dangerous ideas.
I stepped into the garage, and Trace looked over at me, a smile lighting his face.
He waved me over, and then motioned for me to sit on a stack of tires.
“It may not be the most comfortable thing ever, but it’s better than sitting on the floor,” he shrugged, pointing to the concrete floor riddled with stains from leaky cars.
“True,” I smiled. “So, what are we doing?”
Trace waggled a grease-covered finger at me. “I’m not telling.”
“Shocker,” I deadpanned, causing him to laugh.
He grinned and pointed at the car on the lift. “I’ll be done in no time.”
“Alright,” I sighed, kicking my feet against the stack of tires. “How come no one ever seems to be here but you and Luca?”
“I prefer to work late,” he shrugged. “The other guys are usually gone by four o’ clock.”
“Huh,” I commented, cupping my face in my hands, and leaning forward, watching as Trace expertly began rotating the tires.
When it came to cars, everything seemed to be as easy as breathing to him.
He lifted one of the tires off, and I wouldn’t have been a female if I wasn’t affected by the way his muscles flexed and rippled, glistening with sweat.
Even dirty, covered in grease and sweat, Trace was the sexiest man I had ever laid my eyes on.
I looked over at his car, the older one, parked outside the garage, and a question popped into my mind.
“Trace?” I voiced.
“Yeah?” He asked, looking over at me, those green eyes rendering me speechless for a moment.
Shaking my head, I asked, “Your car…I’m no expert but isn’t that a classic?”
“Yeah, it is,” he grinned, lighting up. Trace truly loved cars, had a passion for them, a passion that a lot of people didn’t have for anything. “My dad and I fixed it up together. It was a hobby of his, restoring old cars. It’s where I got the knack for it. He gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. Best day of my life,” he stared off into the distance, remembering something. “My dad was a mechanic too. Some might say it’s not a glamorous job,” he spread his arms wide, encompassing the garage, “but it’s rewarding to fix something. I especially love restoring cars, like we did with that one,” he flicked his head toward his car. “Ther
e’s something so satisfying in taking this broken piece of metal and turning it into something beautiful.”
I looked down at the ground. “Is that why you want to help me? Are you just wanting to fix me and make me beautiful again?”
Suddenly, he was in front of me, his boots blocking the ground I was staring a hole in.
With a finger under my chin, he lifted my face up to his. “Olivia, you’re already beautiful, and you’re definitely not broken. Lost? Yes. But not broken.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
