Page 132 of Heart Over Heels

The TV droned on. Someone snored softly. No one ate.

I watched Darby watch them, and before I could overthink it, I grabbed his hand.

He startled, just a tiny jerk, before his fingers curled around mine.

He’d asked for somewhere private, but I couldn’t bring myself to suggest the bedroom. It felt presumptuous. That was the kind of intimacy you earned, not escorted someone into.

Instead, I tugged him toward the door leading to the garage. When we reached it, I opened it and led him through into the warm, dim space.

The latch clicked, and we were alone.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

Mercer

As garages went, mine was fairly standard. It had a few pegboards with tools, a workbench, a rake and shovel, and a stacked washer and dryer. The Victory took up most of the center space, gleaming beneath the overhead light.

When Darby outfitted my house, this space had been overlooked, so this was his first time seeing it. Pulling away from me, he cast a look around, his eyes glazed with exhaustion, disinterest, or a bit of both.

“This was a choice.” He glanced back at me. “Something wrong with your room?”

The combination of privacy and proximity had my heart thumping. Or maybe that was just the effect Darby had on me. I scrubbed my hand along the shaved side of my head while dodging his inquisitive gaze.

“It just seemed like it would be awkward to go in there and stand around my bed. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to…” Blush burned up my ears and caused me to grimace. “That’s not why you’re here.”

Darby turned away, but not before I caught the smile that tempted his lips. Surveying the garage once more, he gave an approving nod. “I can work with this. But I’ve gotta tell you, Mercy, I’ve been on my feet for thirty-some-odd hours, and I want nothing more than to sit. What have you got for me?”

I did a quick turn, scanning until I spotted the rolling stool shoved under my workbench. Grabbing it, I pulled it over to him.

Darby stared down at the padded seat with nothing short of scorn. Honestly impressive for a man who looked five minutes from passing out.

“You expect me to squat on that thing?” he asked.

Fair.

Looking past him, my gaze caught on the Victory. “You could sit on my bike,” I offered. “If you get on facing backward, you can lean against the tank.”

We went to the motorcycle together, where I held out a hand to help him climb up and swing his leg over. Then as gracefully as he did everything, he settled back against the tank, head bracketed between the handlebars and body curved in an impossibly beautiful arch.

His eyes fluttered shut.

He sighed.

And I stared like a fool.

A lot had happened in the past day, and Darby had barely begun to explain how we’d arrived at this place. But the most incredible thing was that this man, this stunning soul, had come back to me. He was here, relaxed and reposed like he didn’t have a care in the world, when I knew for a fact, he had plenty.

But maybe he didn’t have to carry all that weight around me. Maybe he felt safe enough to set down his baggage and his mask. I hoped so.

After a long quiet moment, Darby’s eyes cracked open, and he peered over at me.

“Aren’t you getting on? This thingisa two-seater.”

I glanced at the spread of his legs and the skirt hitched indecently high on his thighs. My brain short-circuited for a second. “You wanted to kick your feet up,” I said weakly.

“Mercer James, get your ass up here.” He sounded as exhausted as he looked. “I told you I’m done being mad, and I want to be close to you.”