Page 14 of Steel's Secret
Her eyes search mine, weighing pride against sense. Then she exhales, a small cloud of white. “Fine.”
“Good call.” I open her door, take the folder from her lap before she can protest, and offer a hand she pretends not to see. She still takes it.
Her fingers are ice cold, small against my palm. I don’t let go until we’re both inside the garage again, the door thudding shut behind us.
The heater hums, struggling against the draft, but the place feels warmer instantly. I peel my coat off and hang it on the door next to my cut. She shakes snow from her coat, hair dripping onto the concrete.
“Told you,” I mutter, setting the folder on the bench.
She gives me that look. The one that used to undo me. “Still bossy.”
“Still reckless,” I shoot back.
“Guess we’re both consistent.”
A reluctant grin almost tugs at my mouth, but before I can answer, the lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
She glances up. “That normal?”
“Not lately.”
The power cuts for a breath, plunging us into a dim orange glow from the heater. Then it buzzes back on, weaker this time. Snow hits the door again, heavier, sealing us in.
She crosses her arms. “Please tell me you’ve got a generator.”
“Not one that can fight this storm.”
“So… we’re stuck?”
“Looks that way.”
Her lips press together, half-smile, half-challenge. “Figures.”
I shrug, moving toward the heater to feed it more wood. The flame flares, casting gold light over the Harley’s chrome and the damp sheen on her hair.
She steps closer, rubbing her hands for warmth. “You ever fix that idle problem?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Still nags at me sometimes.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Me too.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The storm howls outside, the lights flicker again, and every ounce of space between us disappears into the heat rising off the barrel stove.
Her gaze peeks over my bare chest, grease-stained hands, and the ring hanging from the chain around my neck. Something in her eyes softens before she catches herself.
“Still working yourself bloody to outrun your thoughts?” she asks quietly.
“Still pretending you don’t have any?”
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Touché.”
I grab the rag from the bench and toss it into the oil bucket. “Get your coat off before you freeze.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked.”
