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‘The Stagg.’
‘Not yet. I’m pretty close, I think. I’ve ruled out most of the things it could be, but I’m certain it’s the timing chain. Which isn’t the best news, because the timing chains are long in these engines, meaning they need to be replaced every 25,000 miles, which interferes with the engine and may mean the pistons and valves need replacing, too.’
‘The run isn’t for another four weeks, though.’
‘This is a massive job, Frankie. Good news is that I can get the parts for trade price, but it’s labour intensive. I’ll do my best to fix her in time, but I’m making no promises.’
I glance down at his navy overalls tied around his waist, at his oil-smeared arms and the marks on his face. He even looks exhausted, but there’s a light in his eyes when he talks about cars.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I whisper.
His eyes lock onto mine. ‘Doing what, exactly? Sitting here? Talking to you? Because if it’s the latter, I’m not sure. I don’t know why I’m talking to someone who doesn’t like custard creams.’
I can tell from his tone and the brief flare in his eyes that he knows exactly what I refer to. ‘Why are you helping my dad like this? You’re here every night. We have exams next month. Why are you dedicating so much of your time to fixing this car?’
For a moment he says nothing. He just stares at me. I’m reminded of the look on his face before I kissed him—open and vulnerable and unreadable. It’s the expression of a man warring with his feelings, one where, as time halts and suspends, he knows he can alter the course of what happens next, but he’s already been caught.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
‘Because,’ he says at last, ‘to you, that car is just a car. But to your dad, it’s his world. He has nothing for himself, and I think he struggles with his hip more than he lets on. The fact he can’t work on her gets to him.’
‘Don’t you have your own cars to work on?’
He shrugs lightly. ‘My uncle’s in France looking for cheap projects. I don’t have anything to do up until he returns.’
I bite my lip. ‘Do you want to come in for one of your minging coffees?’
Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel wrong. I shouldn’t be inviting Chase into my home, but there’s a fine line between openly talking to another guy and being kind.
This is all it is. I’m just being friendly to Chase. Chase is helping my dad with a massive job, and the least I can do is invite him to sit down on my sofa and make him coffee.
Where’s the harm in that?
Chase takes off his overalls and abandons them on the porch before going upstairs to wash off the oil. By the time he ambles into the living room, I’m curled on the sofa flicking through Netflix.
He pauses in the doorway and stands there for so long I glance over at him. His lips are parted slightly, and his hand is paused in his hair, as if he’d been running his hand through it and suddenly gone still.
‘There’s something on my face,’ I say, feeling my heart speed up, ‘isn’t there?’
He clears his throat. ‘You wear glasses?’ His voice is rough.
‘Only to read and watch TV.’
He nods, looks away from me, and lets his gaze settle back on me before he says, ‘Cute.’
Did he just...? Did he just call me cute? I misheard him, right? Because there’s no way Chase Maverick just called me cute. Cute is reserved for nerdy girls with teddybear coats, girls who giggle at everything the hot guy says, who can be found on a park bench with earbuds in and a book propped on their lap.
I hold my breath as Chase sits next to me.
The sofa dips, and I lean into him slightly, the warmth of his arm brushing my shoulder. But he doesn’t move away. Every nerve ending is on fire. He takes a sip of his coffee, and even as I scroll through movies, I’m more aware of him than I am of the TV.
This moment feels like endless possibilities. One subtle shift and my leg will brush against his. One movement and our breaths will linger.
Does he wonder the same?
‘Have you seen that?’ he asks.
‘What?’
