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This was a stupid plan.
Carpenter’s Auto Services may as well be Fort Knox with how daunting it feels. My nerves are all over the place. My stomach feels queasy as I reach for the door, stopping to inspect the logo.Carpenter’s Autoscribbled in front of a skull with two wrenches for crossbones.
Somehow, I can’t think of anything more fitting for a business owned by Mason Carpenter.
I should have gone home and changed. Maybe brushed my hair. It’s braided and frizzy from the heat, despite there being low humidity on this hot LA summer day. I’ve covered it with a Laker’s hat, but the wild strawberry blonde hairs surrounding my face still escape.
Not that I’m here to look pretty. Those days of secretly wanting to impress Mason are long over, but . . . it would have been nice to show up wearing something a little nicer than a pair of old jeans and a worn t-shirt—it was moving day, okay?
It’s been two years. He doesn’t know I’m coming. A fact that I have reminded myself of for the last twenty-four hours since moving to LA. Ialsocan’t seem to stop thinking about our last conversation. The brush of his tongue against mine. The feel of his fingers gripping my hair while he ground out my name.
Oh, and the way he ghosted me after the fact.
Rejection still burns in my stomach when I think back to that night. How stupid and young and naïve I was to think I could mean anything more to him.
Still . . . I need his help and I’ll be damned if I walk out of this place without it.
Tugging on the glass door to the lobby, I step inside . . .
And almost step right back out.
The place is horrifying. From the dirt on every surface to the papers stacked high on the counter, it’s a wonder anything ever gets done around here.
I can hear the sound of an impact running in the garage, but no one is up front.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Grumbling under my breath, I step toward the door that leads to the garage and peek my head out. I can’t see him, but I can smell him.
Sweat, grease, and that little bit of essence ofhotman—in the attractive sense.
“Hello?” I try again.
The impact drowns out the sound of my voice, so I step fully into the garage, looking at the space around me. In contrast to the office, this area is well organized. The tools are all in their places and the floor has been swept. Though I know nothing about garages this one seems . . . comfortable.
I step around the car that’s being hammered into oblivion by the old, tired impact, spotting long, strong legs covered in denim leading down to old work boots. The shirt covering his torso rides up just enough to catch a glimpse of hard, trimmed abs underneath and I swear, my heart beats just a little bit faster.
Yep, that’s Mason, alright. All six foot, five million inches of him.
Suddenly, the impact stops and he’s sliding out from under the car on a creeper, those hurricane-colored eyes I’ve tried to forget glaring up at me like I’m here to tell him he’s been denied from participating in the rapture.
Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Hannah.”
There’s no question behind it. Just my name. Like he’s acknowledging my presence, but he’s pissed about it.
Yep, definitely a bad idea.
My mind struggles with words because all I can think about is the way he touched me. As if I were precious to him. Like I mattered.
And also his muscles.
This must be some sick joke the universe is playing on me. LikePunk’d: Fuck Hannahedition.
Two years have been good to him. He’s not just the strong guy I once knew, but a whole ass man, now, complete with every ingredient to make the perfect dirty fantasy come to life.
