“I think something’s wrong with my clutch.” I know something’s wrong with my clutch. I know because Warner had one of his guys mess around with it yesterday, giving me an excuse to bring my car here.

Luke watches me closely. “And what did your dealership say?”

Shit. Warner is sitting in the surveillance van right now, listening to the wire, high-fiving the others because he just made fifty bucks off me. When I filled him in on my idea, he argued that it wouldn’t work. That someone who drives a brand-new eighty-thousand-dollar car doesn’t go anywhere besides their dealer for repairs. I bet him that these guys wouldn’t even mention a warranty, that they’d be only too eager to take full advantage of a twenty-something-year-old female.

I guess I was wrong.

I make a point of folding my arms over my chest and assuming an angry stance. “The dealer said that I need my clutch adjusted and that isn’t covered after six thousand, two hundred fifty miles.”

“And you have . . .”

“Sixty-five hundred miles.”

Luke’s face twists up. “And they wouldn’t let that slide?”

“Nope. So I told them to go to hell and I left.”

“Dicks.” He shakes his head slowly. “Well, we can take a look at it. It’s not covered under warranty here, either, but we’ll make sure we’re at a discount to what they’d charge you.”

“I was told your guys know Audis.” From the reports, Rust’s Garage has a reputation for being top notch for any and all cars. I wonder if it’s because their mechanics are top notch at dismantling any and all cars. Not that we have proof of that.

“My guys know every car. Keys?” He holds a hand out, his clean, filed fingernails hiding the fact that he has a mechanic’s license and was working in the garage up until a few months ago.

“Great.” I let my gaze drift over to the bay windows. Beyond them, hoists sit loaded with vehicles. “You guys look busy in there, so I assume it’s going to take a while. I can get a ride home from you, right?” I make a point of lifting my sunglasses and locking gazes with him, letting him take in one of my finer qualities, the light blue eyes I inherited from my mom. Please let this plan keep falling into place . . .

Twisting his lips in pensive thought that I can’t guess at, he first glances over to where the other manager hovers, and then at the large, dark-skinned mechanic who strolls out from an open door. “Zeke!” The man saunters over. “Can you do me a favor and get this car in to check the clutch? Sounds like it just needs an adjustment.”

“Miller said—”

“And I’m saying let’s not make this lovely lady wait all day for such a minor fix.”

He salutes. “Right, Nur— I mean, boss.”

“Thanks, man.” Luke turns back to me, smiling wide. “Go and grab some lunch. It’ll be ready for you when you get back.”

He’s charming, I’ll give him that. And, dammit, there goes that plan. I struggle to hide my disappointment. It’s one thing when you meet someone and wonder if he’s attracted to you. I need to attract him, if this is going to work. And, now that I’ve met him face-to-face, sober, the clock is ticking.

Placing a hand on my hip, I plaster on a playful smile of my own. “And where are you going to take me for lunch?” Ugh. I hate girls like this.

He cocks his head to regard me for a moment with curiosity. I wouldn’t call it annoyance. It shouldn’t be. From everything we’ve seen, Luke Boone is attracted to women who expect to be kept on ivory pedestals.

He holds out a hand. “Luke.”

A small sigh of relief escapes me as I take it, letting my polished fingertips graze his palm as I accept his hand. “Rain.”

“Rain,” he repeats. “I was actually just about to head out to lunch. Wanna join me?” He glances down at my shoes. “It’s a few blocks. Can you handle that?”

Should I play agreeable? Or does he expect complaints? Should Rain Martines expect to be driven? It sounds like such a silly thing to consider, and yet some guys are attracted to bitches and I need him to be attracted to me. There’s a fine balance between playing the role I’m supposed to play and being myself, to avoid any bipolar personality changes.

While I spend a few seconds grappling internally with exactly how high maintenance I need to be, Luke begins walking out of the lot. So I grab my purse from the driver’s seat and hurry after him, doing my best to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.

A quick peripheral scan down the side street finds the navy-blue van, where my cover guys watch behind tinted glass. It’s both comforting and irritating to have people spying on my every move, listening to my every word. But that’s a nonnegotiable part of being undercover. They’ll always be within arm’s reach when I’m with my target, just in case something should go wrong.

Luke falls into step beside me as we make our way along the sidewalk, his hands hanging from his pockets. “So? What’s your story? Where are you from? I’m guessing you’re not a Portland native.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes flicker over my clothes. “You don’t look like the type of girl who owns hippie skirts and combat boots.”

“And you don’t look like the kind of guy who wears skinny jeans and penny loafers.”

That’s what Portland’s all about, after all. Hippies and hipsters. If you don’t fit into one of those two groups, then you’re stepping off the pages of a Columbia sportswear catalogue. People like Luke and me—or at least Rain—are a minority around here.