“Idid.”
He lifts his hands. “I’m not questioning you.”
“You are trying to stir me up though.”
“What was that you said about me being nice earlier?”
“Ah … the true Ford comes out.” And wow, the teasing note that comes with my words almost,almostsounds like flirting. But … why? I’m not interested in a date with him, but even I can recognize there’s something about him that’s comforting. Thrilling?Both? I’m not even sure that’s possible. Just talking to him is like waiting in line for a roller coaster.
I ring him up and round the counter to hand over the flowers, but before he takes them, Ford shrugs out of his jacket.
“What are you—”
“Here.” He steps forward and loops it around my waist, then ties the sleeves together. This close, I can smell … motor oil … aftershave … sweat … and I don’t hate it. It speaks to long days working with his hands, surrounded by cars, getting filthy …
I tear my gaze from his chest and find him watching me. His hands have dropped from his jacket, but we’re still way too close.
“Ah, thanks …” I shove the flowers at his chest. “I hope they like them.”
He’s slow to take the bunch, thick, rough fingers brushing my own. “I’m confident they will.”
“Great. Have a …” Fuck, what do I normally say?
He smiles. “You too.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with his warm jacket around my waist and a shop that smells like motor oil and … possibility.
2
Ford
I finishmy order for the parts I need shipped in when a commotion outside my office makes me glance up. Three of my office walls have enormous windows, giving a clear view of almost the entire workshop, and I immediately spot someone who shouldn’t be out there.
Orson.
Walking through my workshop with my jacket slung over his shoulder like he’s strolling through the fucking daisies instead of between my grease gremlins. And hey, I’m not about to complain.
I lean back in my chair, not bothering to hide my grin as he walks into my office without knocking. Holy Corvette, he looks hot today. Well,every day, but today especially. His gray tee is stretched over his chest, silver-streaked scruff trimmed neatly, and fluffy dark hair all styled and shiny. It’s tempting me to bury my fingers in it andtug.
He lays my heavy jacket over the desk, forearm muscles bunching with the movement. “You know, most people at leasttryto hide when they’re eye-fucking someone.”
I chuckle. “You gullible enough to believe I was only trying to remember who you are?”
“Not even close.”
“Worth a shot. Besides, I’ve always been told I can look with my eyes and not with my hands. Just following Momma’s rules.”
“Respectful mother.”
“Bastard son.” I give him a quick wink, wanting to move on from this conversation. He says he’s straight, so I’m gonna go ahead and believe him, even if the way he eyes me makes me think there’s at least a little curiosity there.
I’m not about playing games with men, so if he wants a piece of all this, he’s going to have to get to that conclusion on his own.
“Thanks for the jacket,” he says. He’s got a nice voice. Deep, but not overly so. Kind, light, like he has no problems. Which is horseshit, given he lost his wife and … My gaze strays to the scars on his forearms before I jerk it away again.
“Always gonna help out a damned man in distress,” I say.
“And there’s the nice guy showing through again.”