Page 36

Dean is standing on the porch, with my beautiful Kombi parked behind him in the driveway.

Relief settles through me, quickly followed by an entirely different kind of panic.

He’s wearing a navy-blue Hartwell Motor Co. button-up, black jeans and boots, with a baseball cap turned backwards on his head.

Well, now I’m nervous for a completely different reason.

And not the bad kind.

Dean holds out my keys. “All yours.”

I take them, looking past him toward the Kombi. “You fixed her?”

“Yep,” he replies. “Told you I would.”

I step farther onto the porch to get a better look.

She’s clean.

Suspiciously clean.

The windows are shining, the dust is gone, and even the faded paint somehow looks brighter.

“Did you wash her?” I ask.

Dean glances over his shoulder at the van. “She needed it.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.

I narrow my eyes at him. “How long did all of this take? Have you been working on her all weekend?”

Dean clears his throat and looks toward the driveway. “Had nothing better to do.”

For some reason, I think that’s a lie.

“Wow.” I look down at the keys in my hand. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies.

“Come in. I’ll grab your money.”

The invitation leaves my mouth before I’ve properly considered it.

Dean’s eyes flick toward the open doorway, but he doesn’t move.

“I can wait here,” he offers.

Why didn’t I just tell him to do that?

“No, it’s fine,” I assure him, stepping aside. “Come in.”

After a brief hesitation, Dean walks inside.

He doesn’t wander farther into the cottage or make himself comfortable. He stays beside the front door with his hands tucked into his pockets, giving the room one slow glance.

Still, I suddenly feel exposed.