I knew Ryland James was trouble the night we met, and he won’t change my mind now.
8.
The next morning is cool and overcast, but I’m still sweating like crazy by the time I’ve walked the five miles into town to go see about my car. I step into the cool of the auto shop and catch my breath, wishing I had a cold drink—and a bucket of ice water to pour over my head.
“Bet you’re wishing you hadn’t turned down that ride,” Ryland’s voice comes suddenly in the empty garage, making me jump.
I spin around, gasping. “You. Again!”
“Me,” Ryland agrees amiably. He’s wiping off his hands, dressed in jeans and a sky-blue shirt that makes his eyes look distractingly dark. He looks me up and down with a grin. “I should have warned you. Humidity this time of year can be a bitch.”
“I’m fine,” I reply, my heart beating faster. I wish for a moment that my T-shirt wasn’t sticking damp to my stomach, my hair hanging in limp strands around my face.
It doesn’t matter what you look like, a voice scolds me. Ryland is off limits, remember?
But the calm, logical promises I made to myself in the dark suddenly seem very far away when Ryland is right in front of me, all six foot and then some of taut muscle and raw, physical presence.
“Is the mechanic around?” I ask, trying to stay unmoved. I can see Dolly up on the blocks in the back of the shop, hood open. “What’s his name, Eddie?”
“Eddie’s out on a call, but I’ve got you covered.”
I pause. “You work here? Since when?”
I’m pretty sure Ryland didn’t mention it yesterday, no matter how distracted I was, and my suspicions are confirmed when he gives an easy shrug. “Since twenty minutes ago. I swung by to check about your car. Turns out he’s over-booked right now, so I offered to help out.”
“Just like that?” I ask suspiciously.
“Eddie’s known me since I was a kid,” Ryland grins. “I was stealing engine parts before I could even drive.”
“Reassuring,” I murmur, but my stomach loops in an anxious knot. I’d been betting on never seeing him again. Out of sight, out of mind—even if it hasn’t exactly worked that way so far. But now it looks like there’s no escape.
“The good news is, you haven’t destroyed her too badly.” Ryland changes the subject without a beat, heading over to my car. I follow, gingerly stepping around the equipment and cables strewn around the grease-stained garage floor. “The bad news is, you were right. You threw a rod, and need a couple of parts special-order. I checked around, and two to three weeks is the fastest they can arrive.”
I give a rueful sigh. “I figured as much.”
“So, do I have the go-ahead to order them in?” Ryland asks, checking a clipboard.
I nod. “Whatever you need to do.”
“Alright then, princess,” he replies, adding a faint drawl to the last word.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I should have figured a girl living in a house like that wouldn’t be worrying about dollars and cents.”
Ryland keeps scribbling on the clipboard, but I feel a flicker of annoyance.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“My apologies.” He rips off a page and passes it to me. “I don’t know you. How about we do something to fix that?” he adds, with another of those charming grins. “Say, dinner. Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
Damn, this man’s smile should carry a warning. Our fingers brush as I reach for the paper. I feel a shiver, pure quicksilver lust skittering down my spine.
“No,” I yelp, jerking my hand back as if I’ve been burned. Zoey would tell me to go for it, but I can’t take the risk. “I told you, Vegas was a one-time thing.”
Ryland shrugs, still giving me an easy grin. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. I’ll give you a call.”
“I said no,” I repeat firmly, even as I feel an urge to say yes. To just slide into his car and let him take me wherever he wants to go. A man like this, he could find a hundred ways to distract me from the guilty whispers in my mind.
A hundred breathless, gasping, wicked ways.
“I know, princess.” When I snap back to reality, Ryland is laughing at me. “I meant, call you about the Mustang, when it’s ready.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” My cheeks burn. I stumble backwards, tripping on a wire.
“Easy there.” A pair of strong arms hold me up before I can fall. For a brief, glorious moment I’m pressed against his body, feeling the heat blaze; the dense muscles hiding under that shirt. Then he releases me, gently setting me down. “You should probably stop by the general store on your way out, I saw some sneakers in the back.”
“Sneakers?” I blink at him, still feeling light-headed.
Ryland smirks. “Until this baby is on the road again, you’re going to be doing an awful lot of walking.”
Ryland’s right. As I leave the auto shop, I realize that hiking five miles in each direction every time I want to take a trip into town isn’t going to work. I could call any one of my brothers and have them organize a rental for me, but I was serious about becoming more independent. How can I expect them to take me seriously if I come running every time I hit a bump in the road—or in this case, a broken-down engine?
I’m still not sure what to do when I pass the small thrift store at the end of Main Street. It’s got a window full of clutter: old books and furniture and other junk, but something catches my eye in the back.