Page 50 of Rising Heat

mack

I’m halfway through the truck check when I realize I’ve opened the same side compartment twice.

I shut it harder than necessary.

She’s been living in that apartment for all of a month now and has already become the kind of distraction that has me standing like an idiot staring at a piece of equipment like it took a swing at me.

The inconvenient kind. The kind that has you wondering what her soft skin would feel like pressed against yours, or what those bright eyes look like when they’re rolling into the back of her head instead of arguing with you. The kind that almost has you forgetting it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Almost.

She’d been annoyed at me the whole time I was up there, mouth sharp, chin up, holding that wooden spoon like she meant it.

The sweater didn’t help. Cream-colored cotton sweater pulling tight across her chest every time she crossed her arms, outlining curves and dipping down just enough to show off her perfectly round tits. The sight was impossible to ignore and makes my cock twitch even now.

That part, at least, made sense.

Attraction’s easy. Attraction follows rules.

What I can’t seem to stop thinking about is the argument.

Finding a stranger under your sink should’ve been the memorable part of that conversation. Instead, she spent twenty minutes acting like the real issue was the fact that I hadn’t called first. Every answer I gave her somehow became another question, and every time the argument should’ve died, she’d find a way to keep it going.

Most people would’ve laughed, rolled their eyes, and let it go.

Darcy Reed doubled down.

And god help me, I liked it.

Nobody gives me shit anymore. Not really. The guys try, but that’s different. Family is different, too. Most people either trust me, listen to me, or get out of the way. Darcy looked at me like I was the problem she was trying to solve and fought with me for twenty straight minutes armed with a wooden spoon and pure stubbornness.

I should’ve found it exhausting.

Instead, I keep thinking about the fire in her and how much I wanted to stoke it.

I swear under my breath and reached for my clipboard.

Cold March air slips through the open bay doors, carrying the damp smell of wet pavement and melting snow. Outside, Huntington is waking up slow and gray, traffic already stacking toward Fenway while winter and spring continue their annual argument over whose turn it is.

The bay floor still gleams from the overnight wash-down, polished concrete catching the overhead lights in long silver strips beneath the rigs. I’ve always liked it best before the shift settles into itself. Before all the noise.

Marco’s already at the workbench with a stack of RIT training paperwork spread out in front of him, making notes between sips of coffee. Tyler’s practical evaluation isn’t for a few weeks, but that hasn’t stopped Marco from treating the whole thing like it’s his responsibility too.

I grab my clipboard just as Marco glances up, then down at the clipboard before back at me.

“Interesting priorities.”

I follow his gaze to THIRD FLOOR WINDOW LATCH sitting at the top of the maintenance list.

“It’s broken.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later the bay doors swing open and Tyler comes through carrying a breakfast sandwich and nods at Coop.

“If you touch my breakfast again, I’m calling the union rep.”

Coop looks up from lacing his boot with the concentration of a guy trying to defuse a bomb.