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CHAPTER 1
***
Bea
Gearhead’s Garage sits on the outskirts of Snowflake Falls, nestled between an older neighborhood, original to the area, and quaint, locally owned businesses. Store windows are dressed with festive decorations befitting the season. Twinkling lights sparkle in the tree branches lining the street. Freshly fallen snow covers the sidewalks and rooftops as a crisp breeze blows in from the west. When I arrived earlier, the only sign of life was Roman’s Harley’s tire tracks and a single set of footprints leading to the garage door.
A wood-burning stove crackles in the corner, filling the indoors with warmth and the scent of cherry wood and pine. I perch atop a vintage, hardwood tool bench dating back to an era long before my time. It’s rough, showing years of wear and tear with dents, gashes, and burns in the sturdy wood. It took six men to wrestle the heavy fixture into the garage, but Roman insisted on saving it from the scrap heap when he found it at an estate sale. The company executing the sale gave it to him for free in exchange for carrying it off the property.
Roman’s soft spot for preserving the past is only one of the many qualities I find attractive about him. Beneath his gruff exterior lies a man of integrity, honor, and loyalty. He gives nothing less and asks for nothing more from those he befriends. He’s unafraid of hard work, especially when it comes to salvaging and restoring historical mementos. Where others see old junk, Roman sees treasured history.
But Roman,he’sthe real treasure. A diamond in the rough and the only man my heart longs for. It’s too bad he treats me like a little sister.
The lower half of Roman’s body stretches from beneath the 1949 Studebaker my grandfather passed down to me as a high school graduation gift. I named her Laurel due to the body’s deep green color and my love of laurel wreaths at Christmastime. She’s my most prized possession and what keeps me in close contact with Roman year-round. He keeps Laurel’s engine purring like I imagine it did when it rolled off the assembly line and into my grandfather’s driveway.
Roman tweaks and fiddles beneath the truck, grunting and groaning as his legs shift and his hips rise and fall. I don’t know what’s causing him so much irritation, but I don’t mind watching the show. His hips roll upward, lifting from the creeper. His untucked t-shirt shifts, giving me a bird’s eye view of the happy trail pointing directly toward the bulge beneath his grease-stained jeans.
A twinge of longing shoots through my body, settling at the apex of my thighs. I squirm uncomfortably on the workbench, causing the bells on my elf costume to tinkle. Roman grunts, then curses as the sharp ring of metal hitting cement echoes across the garage. His knees bend as he guides the creeper from beneath the truck.
His biceps bulge, stretching the fabric tightly across his arms and chest. And what a glorious chest it is. Toned, tatted, and laden with testosterone. Roman is all man, rugged through and through. I bet he knows his way around a woman’s body like he knows his way around vintage cars. I bet he’s thorough and takes his time, too.
I’d love to find out if my assumption is true.
“This old bucket of bolts will be the death of me.” He pulls a stained red rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. A crease etches across his brow as he gazes up at me. “She’s going through more oil than usual.”
“Yeah, well, girls need more lubrication than boys,” I quip, testing the waters of flirtation while I have the chance.
The rag in Roman’s hand stills mid-drag across his notably strong and nimble fingers. His eyes burn dark and moody, turning my insides into a quivering pool of aching want.
“That so?” Roman’s guttural timber rolls through me like a runaway freight train that’s lost its ability to brake. “You been reading about lube, Bea?”
My pulse thunders against my breastbone and ripples up my throat. My vocal cords strain as I swallow a hard, shallow breath. Heat climbs up my neck and warms my cheeks.
“I’ve read that inadequate lubrication can cause excessive wear and tear on a body.” I’m pushing my luck. The vein in Roman’s neck pulses as his nostrils flare. The intensity in his eyes penetrates my skin, causing a sudden outbreak of sweat at the nape of my neck and in the creases of my armpits. I lose my nerve and attempt to save face, or at least my dignity. “A vehicle’s body, I mean.”
The effect he elicits in my body with a single, potent stare is more intense than any physical touch I’ve ever known. Nervous jitters creep up my spine, causing me to fidget beneath his gaze. He throws me off balance, but I refuse to shy away from his heated stare.
“Still clinging to hope, Bea?” A rush of cold air whooshes through the garage, followed by the heavy clang of the side door slamming shut on a gust of wind.
My brother’s voice startles me, breaking the brief connection Roman and I shared. Blake saunters into the garage, cocky and overbearing as usual.
“Hope?”Good grief.
If Blake can see straight through me, then Roman can too. They probably think I’m a foolish girl with a puppy love crush. I’m ridiculous. The whole notion that Roman could ever see me as anything more than Blake’s little sister stings my heart, not to mention my womanly pride.
“Misguided hope and Roman are all that keeps this old junk heap running, Bea.” Blake throws his jacket across the truck’s tailgate. “She’s going to give up the ghost sooner than later. It’s time you start looking for a reliable vehicle and stop wasting Roman’s time.”
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by righteous indignation. Blake’s none the wiser to my interest in Roman, but if he thinks I’ll give up hope on Laurel just because she has a few years and miles on her, he has another thing coming. There are too many memories wrapped up in that truck to let her rot in an auto graveyard or be sold off for parts. She’s more than metal and bolts. She’s mine, flaws, history, and all.
Irritation rushes through me as I scramble from the workbench, snagging my candy cane tights in the process. I tug against the jagged wood, making things worse. The threads cling to the splintered bench, ripping a gash inches wide and exposing a blood-stained scrape across my thigh below my hip.
Pain streaks across my leg, but nothing hurts more than the stabbing pang in my heart.
“Great. Just what I need today.” I straighten my skirt and run a finger over the bloody scratch. “If you two would quit being so stubborn and teach me how to change the oil and all that under-the-hood stuff, I wouldn’t be wasting anyone’s time.”
Roman steps toward me, his eyes glued to the scrape that appears worse than it is, though I don’t mind his attention. He leans in for a closer look, then hesitates before blotting the blood with the rag fisted in his hand.
I couldn't care less that the rag is covered in garage grease. Roman’s careful attention to the wound is a salve to my heart. He’s rough, tattooed, and wears a scowl that would frighten the bravest man, but underneath, he’s gentle, thoughtful, and unwavering in his convictions. When Roman befriends someone, it’s for life.
