Page 19 of Diesel’s Desire

Evan stands on my porch in dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, ink climbing out from under the fabric, rings catching the porch light. His hair’s still damp at the edges like he showered right before driving over, and the stubble along his jaw has that deliberate roughness men his age either can’t be bothered to shave or know exactly what it does to a woman when they don’t.

His eyes drag down the length of me slow enough that I feel it everywhere his gaze touches—my collarbone, the curve of my waist, the hem of the dress skimming my knees—and when his eyes finally climb back up to my face, something dark and pleased settles into his expression.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low enough that Thunder’s ears perk up behind me.

“Yes.” The word comes out steadier than I feel. My pulse is doing something ridiculous, hammering against my throat like I’m seventeen again and he’s picking me up for prom instead of a man I suspect of grand theft and armed robbery I can’t prove.

“You look beautiful, Penny.”

I don’t have a response for that, so I grab my purse off the hook by the door and let him walk me to the truck instead, his hand hovering near my elbow but never quite touching, like he’s giving me the choice.

I take the choice. I let my arm brush his on the way down the steps.

The truck smells like leather and something citrusy he must’ve put on tonight, cologne instead of the usual motor oil and cigarettes I remember from years ago. He opens my door before I can reach for it myself, waits until I’m settled before he shuts it, and the whole thing feels absurdly formal for a man who used to lift me over his tailgate by the waist without asking.

“Where are we going?” I ask once he’s pulled out of my driveway.

“The Depot.”

My eyebrows climb. “The Depot? That place has a two-week waiting list.”

“Not tonight.” He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, and I decide I don’t actually want to know what favor got called in or what threat got implied to clear a table on a Friday night at the nicest restaurant in Briar Fork.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Wanted to.” He glances over, quick, and the porch light’s long gone, but I can still feel the weight of that look. “Figured you deserved better than the diner.”

“I like the diner.”

“I know you do.” Something in his voice softens. “I remember.”

We don’t talk much the rest of the drive, but it isn’t the bad kind of quiet. It’s the kind that used to sit between us in his truck two decades ago, back when neither of us needed to fill every silence with words because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

The Depot used to be exactly what its name suggests—an old railroad depot from the boom years, brick and timber, with the original ticket window still built into one wall like a museum piece nobody had the heart to tear out. Somebody with money and vision turned it into the closest thing Briar Fork has to fine dining, white tablecloths and low lighting and a wine list that takes longer to read than my last vacation lasted.

The hostess seats us at a table near the back, tucked half behind a support beam, and I suspect Evan requested it. Not hidden, exactly. Just not front and center where every set of eyes in the place has a clear shot.

Doesn’t matter. I still catch two separate couples doing double takes on their way to the restroom, and I know exactly what they’re seeing—Officer Carpenter, out of uniform, sitting across from a Wicked Sinner with more ink than a man ought to have and rings on every finger.

By morning, half the department’s going to have heard about this.

“You’re doing that thing,” Evan says, watching me over the top of the wine list.

“What thing?”

“Checking the exits. Counting who’s watching us.” He sets the list down. “You’ve done it since you sat down.”

I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“Or you’re nervous.”

“Maybe both.” I let myself smile, because there’s no point pretending otherwise with a man who’s known me since I was fourteen. “This is a small town, Evan. People talk.”

“Let them.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a badge and people’s expectations hanging over you.”

“No.” He leans back, and something wry pulls at his mouth. “I’ve got a cut people expect other things from. Trust me, sweetheart, whatever they’re saying about you sitting here with me, they’ve been saying worse about me for twenty years.”