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“You’ve met Trina?” Hamish asks.
“Briefly.” Mac’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his eyes alight with a brighter smile than the tilt of his lips…and I start blushing. Hard. Oh no.
“She never told me her name, though.” He angles his head as the sun catches on the masculine planes of his face. “Trina.” His lips shape my name, tasting it, and something warm glides down my center, settling low between my thighs.
This is bad. Very, very bad.
I glance away, gluing my eyes to the flat tire on my car. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. You really didn’t have to.”
“He most certainly did have to,” Hamish cuts in, grabbing a jack from the truck bed as Mac hauls a spare tire out.
Mac grins at his father. “Dad says jump; I say how high.”
I give them a faltering smile, hoping I don’t look as out of sorts as I feel.
Then begins a show that I didn’t think I’d get to see at eight o’clock on a Thursday morning. The two men set up the jack and start lifting the car, and my eyes seem to want to linger on the way Mac moves. His tee clings to his broad shoulders as he cranks the jack. A little strip of skin along his lower back is exposed when he leans over. His hair, dark brown and tousled, glints red and gold in the morning sun.
And his hands—oh, his hands. I have to look away after a while because watching those hands work feels positively indecent. The long, dexterous fingers. The hard, masculine tendons. The deft movements. The muscles along his forearms clenching and releasing as he works. With one last look at his bulging biceps, I tear my gaze away and study a crack in the pavement.
It takes a few long moments for my pulse to slow.
They’re just hands, for crying out loud. Why does my body feel hot and flushed at the sight of them?
I should buy a new vibrator. Sort myself out before this gets out of hand—Gah! Stop thinking about hands!
When a machine starts whirring and the men remove the lug nuts from my tire, I work up the courage to look again. My heart stutters at the sight of Mac’s strong thighs spread wide, the spare tire held in front of him as he fits it into the wheel well with a grunt.
I’m not a pervert. I swear, I’m not. There’s just something about the way this man moves that makes my blood turn to honey.
Pulling a rag out of the back of his truck, Mac wipes his hands and lifts those amber eyes to mine. “All done. Should get you to the mechanic in one piece.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as his lips tip up again, a deep crease bracketing one side of his mouth. I want to trace that crease with my tongue.
Blinking, I try to clear the image from my mind. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Thank you,” I manage to respond. “I’ll look up the nearest mechanic.” I reach into my purse for my phone, but Mac makes a noise to get my attention.
“It’s Remy’s place. I’ll go with you. My bike is there.” Mac chucks the rag into the cab of the truck and nods to his father. “See you tonight?”
Hamish waves a hand as he turns and walks toward the Grove.
“Thank you!” I call out after him.
Hamish pauses and turns, then points a finger at me. “I was serious about those pool lessons, girl. You were a disgrace.” Then he turns back around and marches toward the bar.
I grin, turn, then trip over my own feet, because Mac isn’t in his truck—he’s standing with one foot against the passenger side door of my own car. When I swallow, my throat is thick. “You… You’re riding with me?”
Is it just me, or did Mac’s eyes heat when I said that? He arches a brow and leans a hand against the roof of the car, stretching his long body to its full height. “That okay?”
“I— Yeah, of course. You… I don’t— Yeah. Uh-huh.”
Ohmigod. Stop. Talking.
Mac’s eyes glimmer. “You sure?”
This time, I just clamp my mouth shut and nod. Then I make my way to the driver’s side and get in.
Mac folds his long body and slides in next to me, and the air in the car turns stifling. He’s just so…big. The top of his messy hair brushes the roof of the car. His thick, tree-trunk legs are spread wide, knees touching the edge of the glove box before he pushes the seat back and gives himself a couple inches of room. I watch those hands work to pull the seatbelt across his body, and I have to close my eyes for a moment just to compose myself.
There’s something wrong with me.
