Page 90 of Dial F for Finance

He takes the wrench out of his mouth.

“You’re staring, Pemberton.”

CHAPTER 22

Jenna

Inearly drop my glass.

“How—”

“Your footsteps. Like an auditor sneaking up on a discrepancy.” He straightens and turns, wiping his hands on a rag that’s more grease than fabric, and the grin that spreads over his face at the sight of me—sleep-rumpled, bare-legged, wearing his shirt and holding the evidence I went through his fridge—should require a permit. “Also, I have cameras. I knew you were up as soon as you stepped out onto the mezzanine.”

“Oh. Um. I was looking for you. I wasn’t snooping,” I say quickly, realizing he probably caught my slow wander through the photographic evidence of his life.

“Couldn’t care less if you were.” He crosses the room and presses a kiss against my cheek. “Good morning, wife.”

The word wife in his mouth makes my knees a little unreliable. I try to play it off. “You always start your Saturdays by building motorcycles?”

“Depends.” He tosses the rag onto a bench. “Sometimes I restore classic cars. Sometimes I day trade just to see if I can still beat the market with both hands tied. Sometimes I stay in bed long enough to make you question your own stamina.” He’s circling closer, eyes dark and delighted. “But I figured you needed your rest after last night.”

My cheeks heat, remembering the multiple orgasms and filthy things this man did to me. I clear my throat, try to be casual. “Is this your secret? You’re actually a grease monkey with a spreadsheet fetish?”

“I contain multitudes, babe.” He eyes the cold brew. “Is there more of that, or did you drink it all?”

“Why don’t you go check,” I say, taking another long swig just to prove I’m not afraid of him, or his fridge, or the weird, craving ache in my chest that comes from remembering the photo of us on his shelf.

He grins and heads back to his bike. “You know, I like you like this. You should sleep in more often.”

“Pass.” I move to sit on the bottom step, knees to chin, and watch him work. I’m not usually a girl for engines, but I am a girl for men who know how to be alone with themselves, who know how to fix things, who come with the self-sufficiency baked in. I drink the last of the coffee and set it aside, waiting for him to say what I know is coming.

He says nothing, for a good minute, and in that minute I hear everything: the low radio, the rhythmic clank of a socket against metal, the way his breathing is unhurried even though he knows he’s being watched. A normal man would put on a little show for my benefit—gloat, ask what I think, crack a joke about giving me a ride after. Not Dominic. For all his extrovert bravado, this is a man who can be alone in a room with just his own mind and not try to run from it.

I clear my throat. “So what’s the project?”

He glances up, then back to the bike. “Nineteen seventy-three Triumph Bonneville.” He pats the tank like a flank. “I’ve been restoring her for four years. Logan says I’m stalling because if I ever finish her, I’ll have to find a new excuse to hide down here.”

“Are you?”

“Obviously.” He says it without a flicker of shame, and something in my chest goes sideways. “A man needs one thing that doesn’t close, Jen. Deals close. This just—continues.”

I get up and move closer to the bike, circling it slowly. The parts laid out on a towel in size order. The little handwritten labels. The masking tape on the tank with three paint-code candidates in his blunt block letters. I realize that this is what his brain does when nobody needs anything from him at all.

“Hold this, please,” he says, pressing a loose bracket into place and guiding my fingers to it.

I take it with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Carburetor bracket. Keep it steady.” He fits a socket over the bolt. “Here.”

I hold it while he tightens the bolt. “If you pretend your wife is a grease monkey’s apprentice, is there a sexual fantasy attached, or are you genuinely just using me for labor?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Yes.”

I roll my eyes, but my lips can’t help it—they twitch. “You’re impossible.”

He winks. “You know why I like doing this?”

“Because it makes you feel in control,” I deadpan.