Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I rotate it once. Twice. Hold it up, then lower it again.
Right. Okay. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
I hear the sound of the lobby doors whooshing open and I turn that way, expecting to see Jimmy coming out. I imagine he saw me through the glass and took stock of how hopelessly pathetic I am.
My smile slides right off my face when I see Crosby walking out the door. My pulse stutters, not from fear or surprise, but rather awareness. The kind that tightens low and immediate.
I take a moment to watch him as he hasn’t seen me. The man is sinfully gorgeous with dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes. He’s powerfully built but moves with catlike grace.
I look around the parking lot, but I don’t see his truck. The one with the very, very loud horn. His gear bag is slung over one shoulder, posture loose in the aftermath of what I’m guessing was a solo workout.
I turn my attention back to the jack in my hand, peering at the instructions on the label to see if they make more sense. I hear Crosby’s steps, steadily eating up the space across the parking lot, but then they slow. I risk a glance over and find him staring at me in surprise.
I turn back to the jack, finally seeing how it sits and trying to figure out exactly where I should put it under the car. His footsteps start up again but the sound fades, meaning he’s walking away.
Oh, well… I guess chivalry is dead.
“You’ve got this, Juno,” I reassure myself. I’ll figure it out and if not, there’s always Jimmy. And if not Jimmy, I’ll call my roadside service.
Easy peasy.
But then I hear footsteps again, and I pop up from my squat, because I don’t know who that could be. My mace is on the front passenger seat, not doing me a damn bit of good standing out here by myself.
But I’m shocked to see it’s Crosby coming my way. He drops his bag on the pavement. “You’ll want the jack under the frame,” he says, like he’s picking up a conversation already in progress. “Not the panel.”
“Good to know,” I say with a relieved laugh, but then frown. “What does that mean… frame?”
The corner of Crosby’s mouth lifts and he crouches beside the wheel without ceremony, reaching for the jack. Our fingers brush as the tool changes hands and both of us freeze, his green-gold eyes boring into mine.
The contact is brief, accidental—and far too loud in my nervous system. I’ve been touched by strangers in far worse circumstances without flinching, so I’m not sure why this one is so electrified.
Finally, he says, “You were turning it the wrong way.”
“I suspected as much,” I drawl with my arms spread wide. “But I was hoping confidence might carry me through.”
He actually chuckles, shaking his head. “Good thing I came along before you really got rolling.”
I glance around the lot. “I thought you drove a truck. You know… black, really loud horn.”
Crosby glances at me, eyes crinkling. “I do. But I also drive a Porsche.” He nods over to a silver, low-slung sports car.
“It’s cute,” I say.
His eyes flare and his mouth sags slightly as if I said the most idiotic thing. “It’s a Taycan GTS. All electric. Over five hundred horsepower. Fast enough that it deserves more respect than ‘cute.’”
I snicker as I incline my head. “My apologies.”
Crosby mumbles under his breath about the sleek lines of his car and I watch as he kneels beside the tire, already efficient, already focused. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. Hands steady as he slots the jack into place.
My gaze tracks the movement—forearms flexing as he works, strength controlled rather than showy—and it pulls a memory loose that I’d filed away too neatly.
The arena locker room last night.
Crosby stripping off his jersey, skin flushed from effort, muscles relaxed but still defined. I’d looked—longer than professionalism allowed—and he’d caught me. A flicker of his eyes meeting mine before I forced myself to look away, pulse spiking as if I’d been the one exposed.
If I were doing a documentary on the hottest hockey players in the league, he’d absolutely be in the main role. The kind of raw beauty that doesn’t ask for attention but somehow commands it anyway.
“You know,” I say, watching him work, “this isn’t even my worst car experience.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s reassuring.”
“I once broke down in rural Utah. Middle of nowhere. No service. No traffic. Just red dirt and a vulture circling overhead.”
That earns me a glance, curious despite himself. “What happened?”
“I opened the hood, stood there for twenty minutes pretending I knew what I was doing,” I admit. “I think I jiggled a hose or two.”
He huffs—a quiet sound, almost a laugh—and pumps the jack. “And?”
“And then a guy pulled up in a truck that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the Clinton administration. He hopped out, looked at me, looked at the engine, and said, ‘You break it or did you ignore a warning light out of spite?’”