“It is to me,” she said, and I was terrified she was going to hug me, but she didn’t. She picked up her suitcase and headed down the hall into my room.

When I heard the door shut, I exhaled in relief and went over to the chest beneath the front windows where I stored spare blankets. Since it was so warm, a sheet would’ve been better than a blanket, but my extra sheets were in my bedroom. I’d have to wait until she came out to get one. I stood there wondering if she was topless in my bedroom right this second, and my cock was hard in seconds.

The bedroom door creaked open again.

“Griffin?”

“Yeah?”

“Um, I need some help.”

“Help?”

“Getting this dress off.”

I looked up at the ceiling. Really, God? Really?

Cursing under my breath, I adjusted the crotch of my jeans and walked back to my bedroom, my heart beating an uncomfortably hard, fast rhythm. When I reached the doorway, I kept my eyes on the floor. “Is it okay to come in?”

“Yes. I’m sorry—this whole situation is awkward enough—but the zipper is stuck.”

Tentatively, I entered the room and saw her standing with her back to me, holding up her hair. A few more steps and I was close enough to reach for the zipper, which was concealed behind a column of what looked like fabric-covered buttons. Holding my breath, I concentrated on pretending the job was just another mechanical task, like tightening a bolt.

The zipper’s slider was tiny and definitely stuck, but I managed to grasp it in my fingers and get it moving—the dress parted and her naked back appeared. I stopped when my hand reached the curve of her waist. “Is that okay? Can you reach it from there?”

She let her hair fall and reached around her back, but I was standing so close she accidentally brushed against my crotch, which had a pretty good bulge going.

Gasping, she pulled her hand away and whirled around. “Oh God! I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I cleared my throat and backed away. “I think you’ll be able to reach it now.”

She tried again and was able to grasp the slider without a problem. “I’m good. Thank you.”

“No problem.” I turned around and left the room, pulling the door shut behind me.

Out in the living room, I dropped onto the couch and tried not to think about her bare limbs, the scent of her skin, the brush of her fingers over my cock.

Stifling a groan, I laced my fingers behind my head and tipped it back, staring at the rotating ceiling fan above. Its whir was hypnotic, and I was so tired . . . my breathing slowed, my eyes closed, and before I knew it, I was out.

When I woke up, rays of early morning light were just starting to slip through my front windows. For a few seconds, I was confused about why I was sitting out here wearing boots and jeans but no shirt.

Then I looked over to my left, where Blair was sound asleep in a chair, and it all came back to me.

She was curled into a ball, her head resting on a small throw pillow wedged between her knees and her cheek. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, and one bare foot was crossed over the other. She wore a T-shirt and shorts, but they were so short I saw a lot more of her bare thighs than I needed to. I tried to tear my eyes from them before they telegraphed a message to my cock about the way they might feel beneath my palms or under my lips or wrapped around my waist, but I was too late. At the telltale twitch of morning wood, I jumped off the couch so suddenly it startled her.

Her eyes opened, and she picked up her head. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.” I moved behind the couch, not that it was tall enough to conceal an erection if I couldn’t prevent it. Jesus Christ, it was like being sixteen again and having no control over my body whatsoever. How bad would it be to grab a pillow and cover my crotch?

I forced myself to focus on her face, but that wasn’t helpful either—she looked even prettier this morning than she had last night, her face bare of makeup, her hair a tousled mess. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to scoop her off that chair and carry her back to my bedroom. Toss her onto the mattress. Make her scream my name. So what if she’d never slept with someone who didn’t wear a suit to work? I’d show her a good fucking time.

Her lips curved into a smile. “You were asleep by the time I got changed last night. I didn’t know whether I should wake you or not.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry I crashed—I meant to make up the couch for you. Your legs are probably all cramped up from sleeping like that.”

“It’s okay.” She unfolded them and wiggled her toes. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right? I’m just grateful I had a roof over my head. If you weren’t so nice, I’d still be stuck in my car in that uncomfortable dress. Thank you.”

“Glad to help.” I glanced toward my bedroom. “I’m gonna get dressed and head down to the garage so I can take a look at your car. But it’s still early. You don’t have to get up.”

“I like getting up early. I used to go into work at the bakery at five, remember?” She rose to her feet and stretched with her arms over her head, her nipples visibly poking at the thin white cotton. “I’ll get dressed and clear out of here.”

“No rush.” Trying not to drool, I started for my bedroom. “Stay as long as you like.”

Just stay away from me. You’re making me want things I can’t have.

I had planned to check out Blair’s car first thing, but it turned into one of those mornings where nothing went right.

My cousin Lanette had taken over as receptionist while my mother was recovering from surgery—and by “taken over,” I mean she sat in the chair three days a week and answered the phone. Sometimes she filed her nails, but never the paperwork. But Lanette didn’t work on Wednesdays, so of course the phone wouldn’t stop ringing and we were inundated with walk-ins as soon as I unlocked the door.

Which all would have been fine—great, even—except somehow they were all the worst kind of customer.

Like the lonely old lady who wants to tell you her life story instead of what’s wrong with her car. Or the shifty-eyed guy who’s hiding the fact that he already tried to fix the problem himself and made it worse. Or the guy in the suit who’s currently suing the three previous mechanics who have worked on his vehicle.

And it seemed like all of them had already gotten an estimate from Swifty Auto that was cheaper than mine, and a guarantee it would be done by the end of the day. Then there were the customers picking up their cars who were upset at being charged for labor in addition to parts—as if the parts had magically installed themselves and didn’t take hours of skilled diagnostic and technical work on our end.

To make things worse, the desk was a mess, I couldn’t find anyone’s invoices because nothing had been filed for weeks, and no one had told me we were out of coffee.

By the time Blair walked through the lobby door carrying a bakery box and a drinks tray with two tall cardboard cups in it, I was ready to torch the whole operation.

“Hi there,” she said, setting the box and tray on the counter. She wore a short yellow flowery dress, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “How’s it going?”