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Grayson Blackwood isn’t afraid I’ll hate him.

He’s afraid I won’t.

Chapter 4

GRIM

There are two things in this world that make sense to me.

Engines and solitude.

Engines are simple. Something breaks, you find the problem, and you fix the bastard. Solitude is even better. Nobody asks how you’re feeling, nobody looks at you like you’re one bad day away from putting a bullet through your skull, and nobody expects you to make polite conversation.

Which is why I’m particularly irritated when a familiar little red convertible comes tearing up my driveway at ten in the morning.

Autumn Hayes.

Again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I turn back to the carburetor spread across my workbench and pretend I don’t notice her parking outside the garage.

Doesn’t work.

I notice everything about that woman.

Especially when she climbs out wearing tight jeans, ankle boots, and a cream-colored sweater that hugs her tits like it was designed specifically to ruin my concentration.

“Morning, sunshine!”

I tighten a bolt.

“Go away.”

“Aw. Did somebody wake up on the wrong side of his coffin?”

“Didn’t know I was expecting company.”

“That’s the beauty of a surprise visit.”

I glance over my shoulder.

She’s standing in the open garage doorway, holding the wooden box I gave her yesterday.

“What’s that?”

“A box.”

“No shit.”

“You’re welcome.”

She strolls inside like she owns the place, her eyes wandering over the motorcycles lined against the far wall.

“Wow. You’ve been busy.”

“Some of us have jobs.”