He shook his head, chuckling a little. “Stay there, Cinderella. I can’t have you losing a shoe or twisting your ankle.”

“Thanks.” I swiveled in the seat to face outward, and when Griffin got around to my side, he reached for me—then stopped.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his fingers hovering an inch from my waist.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He wrapped his hands around my sides and easily lifted me out of the truck and set me on my feet. I’d never been much of a dancer, but I imagined this was how Ginger Rogers must have felt every time Fred Astaire swung her through the air.

Like just for a moment, the two of you could defy gravity.

He left me sitting inside the small waiting room for about ten minutes. It was small and sparse, not unclean or untidy, but not terribly warm or welcoming either. It smelled like stale coffee and something chemical and metallic—sort of like hairspray from a can. The magazines, though neatly stacked, were all dog-eared and outdated. The chairs were the metal folding variety with padded vinyl seats. One had a rip. The rug appeared clean enough, though frayed at the edges, and one sad, thirsty plant hung on a ceiling hook in the corner.

I took out my phone, prepared to hop on Google Maps and search “places to stay,” but because this was obviously not my day, the thing was dead. I shoved it back in my bag and fought off tears. I did not want Griffin to see me crying, and even more than that, I was determined to be the kind of woman who solved her own problems.

Pausing for a few deep breaths, I made a plan. I would get something inexpensive to eat, ask someone at the restaurant if I could possibly charge my phone while I ate, and then secure a place to stay the night. Of course, I still wasn’t sure how I’d manage to pay for it—and car repairs too—but one crisis at a time, right?

When Griffin returned, he asked for my license, wrote up some paperwork for me, and said he’d look the car over first thing in the morning.

“Thank you,” I said, tucking my license back into my wallet.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“No, thank you. But could you recommend a restaurant nearby?”

He checked the old clock on the wall. “I’m pretty sure the diner stays open until ten on weeknights during the summer. But it’s nine-thirty now, so you’ll want to hurry.”

“Is it within walking distance?”

“Yes. Just a few blocks west. Turn left when you leave here. But I’d be glad to drive you.”

“No, no. That’s okay.” Determined to appear plucky and independent, I picked up my suitcase, and he crossed the lobby to open the door for me.

But I couldn’t move. It was like my feet were stuck in cement.

That’s when I realized I didn’t want to leave him.

Crazy as it sounds, I felt safe in the care of this small-town mechanic with the movie star face and the dimple in his chin and the tattoos and the deep voice and the big, strong hands and the heart he’d learned not to set on anything. I had no real reason to trust him, yet I did. And I kind of wanted to know more about him.

For a second, I thought about asking him if he wanted to come with me.

But just as quickly, I shut that idea down. He’d only been doing his job tonight. He didn’t really care about me. He was holding the door open for me to leave, wasn’t he?

He was holding the door open for me to leave because he probably thought I was a silly, spoiled debutante who couldn’t do anything for myself—a girl who owned a ball gown but not a couch, who fainted on sidewalks, talked too much, and wasn’t even sure what year her car was, let alone what it would cost to fix it. I couldn’t tell him I was scared and had nowhere to go. I wanted him to think I was brave. Resourceful. Adventuresome. All the things I planned to become in my new life.

Besides, I wasn’t his problem, and he’d done enough.

He was holding the door open for me to leave, and there was nothing left for me to do but walk through it.

Three

Griffin

I watched her walk down the sidewalk in the dark, carrying her suitcase and wearing that ridiculous white dress. She almost looked like a ghost.

When she was completely out of sight, I locked the door, turned off the lights, and headed up the stairs to my apartment.

It was strange how bad I felt letting her wander off alone—I had to remind myself she was a grown woman, she’d refused my offer of a ride, and “crime” in this town was generally confined to kids with toilet paper and too much time on their hands.

Still, I hoped she would be okay. She didn’t strike me as helpless, exactly—she was obviously intelligent and probably always landed on her feet, but I definitely got the sense that she lacked some basic street smarts. The fact that she spoke perfect French wasn’t really going to help her in her post-debutante life. But I didn’t blame her for wanting to escape her family, especially if they really expected her to marry someone for his money. It sounded like a soap opera to me.

Then again, I thought as I tossed my dirty clothes in a laundry basket, I didn’t know that many super rich people. Maybe that was normal in their world. I mean, her middle name was Peacock, for Christ’s sake. I’d seen it on her license and nearly laughed out loud, but I hadn’t wanted to make her feel any worse. Hopefully, I could get her car fixed up and send her on her way without too much hassle.

Problem was, it wasn’t just a blown tire. The fluid I’d seen leaking onto the sidewalk earlier told me the MG’s hard brake line had probably rusted through. And getting parts for a 1971 MG wasn’t going to be quick or cheap. But I’d do the best I could for her.

I jumped into the shower and rinsed off the day’s grime and grit, wondering if she’d made it to the diner and who’s ear she was talking off there. It made me smile.

The girl had gumption, as my mother would say.

I admired what she was doing. It took guts to leave behind what you knew and start over somewhere else. I liked that she wanted to start her own business and was willing to work for it. And damn, she was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I mean, she was a little bit crazy, and she talked way too much, but those big green eyes? Those full lips? That curvy little body? I kept thinking about what she felt like in my arms . . . and wishing it could have happened some other time, some other way.

A way that involved being naked in the dark, where I’d shock her sweet little rich girl sensibilities with my filthy mouth, my rough hands, and my big, hard—

I stopped myself before my thoughts went any further, turning off the shower before my hand wandered to my dick.

There was no point in fantasizing about it. Blair Peacock Beaufort did not look like the type of woman who’d be interested in one night of hot, dirty sex with her mechanic. Or with anyone, for that matter. She was undoubtedly pure vanilla between the sheets. She’d probably insist on wearing the white gloves to bed. Maybe even the tiara.

Then again, that might be kind of fun.

I woke up with a start—I’d heard something.

I lifted my head off the pillow in the dark and stayed completely still, my ears pricked up. At first, I heard nothing but crickets. I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand—it was just after midnight.