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The man halted at the bottom of the stairs and stared at her. His expression didn’t reflect surprise, nor interest.
It was blank. Completely, utterly blank.
The hairs along her spine vibrated in apprehension.
He strode closer, and she noticed he was clean shaven, even though it had to be late afternoon. Maybe early evening, considering the gathering shadows. He wore a crisp white, short-sleeved shirt and blue uniform pants. Well, sort of crisp.
Crease lines marked the shirt and pants in different places, as if whoever had attempted to iron out the wrinkles didn’t know what they were doing. The scent of oil and grease hovered in a cloud around him, yet not a speck of either marred his clothes.
Everything about this guy, and his room, screamed mechanic. The scent triggered a distant memory, one she couldn’t quite place. Something Liv had told her, or was it Jessica?
Then she recalled the recent problem she’d had with her car. Did this guy work at the same shop where she’d recently taken her vehicle to get it fixed?
Had he been stalking her? Did he trash Brodie’s room?
His gaze roamed down her body with a boldness that sucked what little breath remained in her lungs right out. When his dark eyes returned to hers, she could read his intent as clearly as if he had sent her a text.
This man was not her savior.
Reaching out, he placed the pad of his index finger on her bare thigh. In a faraway cavern in her mind, she noted his hands and nails were devoid of grease or grime, as his finger smoothed a line down to her knee, then retraced its path. Up, up, up. .
