“What’s a rat rod?” I’m still trying to make some semblance of sense here.

  Her face looks like I just asked her what that big ball of fire in the sky is. “Like a hot rod under the hood, but the outside isn’t all fancy like the cars we saw at the show. My rod’s navy and rust, loud as hell—should’ve gotten a ticket for that too.” She puts a finger to her lips, telling me to keep quiet about that. “But it’s all about what’s under the hood. She’s totally custom, gutted and rebuilt with my own two hands. She’s got a 426 Hemi that I’ve tweaked. I’d have stayed Ford loyal and put a 385 in there, but I couldn’t find one.”

  I blink, and she rambles on. “She’s not the usual ratter, way too new for that. But I like it because it’s what my dad had when he married my mom. It was their honeymoon getaway car, beer cans rattling behind them and everything. Foxy reminds me of those pictures and their smiling faces.”

  Even though I barely understand what she’s saying, I’m starting to get a picture here, something bigger and deeper than her fixing up Bessie’s transmission.

  “You’re like one of those car guys on TV, aren’t you? Making something from nothing.”

  She buffs her dirty nails on her coveralls, not even feigning modesty. “Something like that. Except those shows are staged, edited, and dramatized. I make good cars great and fast cars faster.”

  It’s not even a humble brag. It sounds like it’s the God’s honest truth, straight from her lips. Maybe her most important truth, and she gave it to me, trusted me with it.

  “You’re amazing.” I lean over the table and kiss those lips. She tastes like syrup and secrets, ones she’s sharing with me.

  Her blink is slow and suspicious. “You’re not gonna tell me I’m being reckless and stupid? That I have no business doing something so dangerous? That I should leave the racing to the big boys?”

  That those questions are on the tip of her tongue tells me she’s heard them all before. This is a test, sure as shit.

  I take another bite, letting her stew for a moment. “Reckless and stupid? That’s my idea of a fun Saturday night.” My grin grows and she smacks my shoulder.

  “Asshole.” But she’s smiling, and I know that whatever she expected from me, that wasn’t it. “And it’s Tuesday.”

  “Yeah, Saturdays are for reckless and stupid. Tuesdays are for crazy and illegal. And watch out for Thursdays . . .” I pause dramatically, and Erica’s smile tells me she’s on board with me. “That’s for secrets and sneaking around.”

  “What about Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday?” Laughter is dancing in her eyes.

  I break first, my laughter rough and rusty. “Shit, I don’t know. I’m making this stuff up as I go.”

  She gets up, coming around the table to kiss me. “You surprise me, Brody Michael Tannen.”

  I could say the same thing to her, but while it feels like a compliment to me, I think she’d take it as an insult. As much as she’s shared tonight, and as wild and outrageous as it sounds, I feel like she thinks it’s no big deal. Just another day, another engine, another hundred and thirty-eight mile an hour drive through the city.

  So I keep my big, fat mouth shut tight as she grabs our plates and takes them to the sink.

  “I’m gonna take a quick shower and wash the jail off me. Can you stay?”

  “Yeah, I can stay.” I see her smile, though she turns quickly to hide it from me. It’s cute, and that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Erica. It feels like another layer of hard-edged fierceness cracked away. I don’t know that she’s soft and sweet underneath all that armor, but I damn sure want to find out.

  As soon as she’s gone to the bathroom, I text Mark.

  Me: Late in the morning. Brutal’s handling goats.

  Mark: This is Katelyn. Are you at Rix’s?

  Me:

  Mark: I’ll let him know not to expect you. I like her. Do you like her?

  I turn my phone to silent and do some Googling on rat rods. I’ve never heard the term before. I mean, NASCAR? Of course. Hot rods? Yeah. Drag racing? Yep. But if this is Erica’s hobby and I don’t want to look like a total dumbass, a little research seems in order. It’s not a thing, I tell myself. Just being friendly, that’s all.

  I don’t believe me, either.

  The bathroom door opens and Erica walks out, naked and soft-skinned. My eyes trace her body, loving the peaks of her brown nipples, the map of freckles I’m still memorizing, and the puffy pink lips peeking out between her thighs. She opens a drawer and puts on a pair of bikini panties.

  That’s when I realize I’m about to get kicked out.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired. I’m probably gonna fall asleep before my head hits the pillow, Brody.” She yawns as she says it, and I can see the wear and tear tonight took on her. There are slight smudges under her eyes and a sense of weariness in the set of her shoulders.

  “You’re in luck. It’s after midnight, so officially Wednesday, and I just decided that’s snuggles and cuddles day.” I smirk at my brilliance, and after a too-long pause where my heart doesn’t beat and I don’t breathe, she smiles back. It’s small, but I’m counting it.

  “That shit usually work?”

  I shrug noncommittally, even though my brow says ‘every damn time’.

  She shakes her head and laughs but then says, “Come on, then.”

  15

  ERICA

  Though I’m the one who claimed exhaustion, Brody falls asleep long before I do. I close my eyes, listening to the white noise of his breathing. It’s almost meditative in its consistent predictability, relaxing me even as my mind processes everything.

  He really came through for me tonight. Surprisingly so.

  It could’ve been a fucking shitshow if I’d had to call someone else. Emily would keep her mouth shut for me, or she’d try, at least. But she lacks one important feature . . . a filter. She’s unapologetically herself, and that includes being shit for secrets because she just doesn’t see the point.

  But I do. I know better.

  Emily doesn’t have secrets because she’s never gone against Dad the way I have. The way I am. And that’s why I couldn’t have called her or Mom or Reed. Or anyone else. Because they’d all tell Dad.

  He didn’t have to do it, but Brody Tannen rescued me tonight. And I fucking hate being rescued.

  He’d been chill about it, though, not asking too many questions and trying to keep a straight face when I told him what I’d done. Unsuccessfully, I add with a smirk in the darkness. He was shocked down to his core, and I get a little thrill out of that the same way I always do.

  I might be little and female, but I’m fierce as fuck behind the wheel of a tricked-out car. Still, I’m mad at myself for the rookie move of getting caught tonight. I know better, am better, and I’m definitely smarter than that.

  Eventually, the sound of Brody’s breathing and his warm presence lull me closer to sleep. I relax into him, my head on his chest and my legs wrapped around his. Unconsciously, he pulls me closer. I’m glad he’s here tonight, not just because of the bail but because he feels right in my bed, beneath my cheek, under my palm.

  I stir before the sun’s even up, a slow stroking of fingers along my arm bringing me from the call of sleep.

  “Mmm, that feels good, but stop it so I can sleep for five more minutes.” In my head, that’s what I say. What actually comes out of my mouth is a growled, mumbled version of that, which makes Brody chuckle.

  The vibration and rise and fall of his chest wake me up even more. Damn it.

  “Want me to make you breakfast while you sleep in, lazy girl?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Not lazy. Be nice to me. I went to jail last night.” I’m kidding . . . mostly. And also, maybe a bit bitchy from lack of sleep.

  But I did manage to process through a few things, the most important being that when the chips were down, I turned to Brody and he came through for me. I didn’t mean to test him, was just desperate, but even so, he passed with flying colors. Good to know, but not something I want to ever repeat again.

  I want to be the badass in his eyes again, wash away the weak girl from last night who needed a rescue from a dark knight in a shining truck.

  “No more pancakes. Let me cook this time.”

  Brody’s hand popping me on the ass surprises the fuck out of me. “What the⁠—”

  “Hell yeah, Lil Bit. Show me what you got, though we both know whatever you whip up ain’t gonna top my mom’s pancakes.” Challenge extended.

  “I’ll admit those are some damn good pancakes, but wait till you see what I can do.” Challenge accepted.

  He wiggles us around, shoving me to my feet even though my eyes are still closed. I stretch, arching my back, trying to work out the kinks from sleeping curled up against Brody’s hard body instead of stretched out across my cushy mattress.

  “Son of a bitch, Lil Bit.”

  I peek open one eye to find him propped up on one elbow and watching me hungrily, his gaze tracing along my body appreciatively. I pose a bit as I contemplate skipping breakfast entirely in favor of sucking him, because behind the black cotton of his briefs, he’s sporting some serious morning wood I could put to good use. But it’s going to be a long day, so I really should start right. With bacon and eggs, not dick. And no, there’s not time for both. I already considered that too.

  “Nuh-uh, no time for that.” I move out of his way, feeling his eyes follow me across the room to the bathroom.

  He groans and falls flat on the bed. “You’re killing me, woman!”

  I laugh and continue on my merry way. When I come out of the bathroom, I’ve yanked my hair into a bun, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. Brody’s managed to pull on his jeans and start the coffee pot, which he’s now watching as hungrily as he was me just a few minutes ago. Somehow, I don’t feel any less special because while he is a vision of raw masculinity filling my tiny kitchen space, I want that coffee too.

  But since it’s not ready yet, I let my eyes trace over him. There’s something about a big, barrel-chested man with no shirt on, a messy bedhead, and a bit too much scruff that does it for me. The barely-on jeans and bare feet help too.

  “You changing your mind on priorities? Because I can grab breakfast later. You? Now’s my chance.” His eyes stay on the coffee pot, though I know I could have them with a single agreeable sound.

  “Eggs.” I swear I mean the chicken kind that I’m going to scramble for breakfast and not my ovaries bursting at his offer.

  He shrugs, but I catch the smirk tilting his lips. I hurry to the refrigerator and the stove before I second—no, fifth—guess my choice of how to spend the few precious minutes I have this morning. Brody pours two cups of coffee, setting one next to the stove for me to sip as I cook before sitting down at the table with his own.

  “I looked up rat rods.” He’s telling me a lot with that simple statement, and I hear everything he’s not saying . . .

  An admission to a lack of knowledge on something I know all about, which is surprisingly difficult for some men to say.

  An acknowledgement that cars are important to me, and he respects that.

  And ultimately, that I mean something to him. I mean enough that he saw fit to educate himself on something solely because of me.

  Brody might not say much, but damn if he isn’t saying a lot.

  “What’d you think?” I peek over my shoulder, still stirring eggs.

  His shrug is casual. His reaction is not, his eyes watching my every move, measuring and assessing. “Seemed cool. I can see how you’d make the jump from the garage to racing pretty fast. No pun intended.”

  I’m quiet, not filling in the blanks he’s not asking about, and the moment stretches uncomfortably.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Brody set his coffee cup down and interlace his fingers on the table. “Can I ask one question?”

  Ah, here we go. I knew this was coming, have been waiting on it, in fact. The judgement, the ‘why don’t you just—’, the condescending mansplaining about safety, the talk.

  I turn, my back against the counter, and cross my arms, spoon still in hand. “What?”

  Brody chuckles. “No need to threaten me with a spoon this time, Lil Bit. It ain’t that serious. I just wondered why the secrecy? I was happy to come getcha, but I bet Emily” —his voice tightens— “or Reed would’ve too.” He shakes off whatever jealous bullshit he’s feeling to finish. “Just wanted to see what I’ve stepped into here.”

  I sag, confused beyond measure because that is not at all what I thought he was going to say.

  “I . . . uh, I wasn’t expecting that,” I tell him honestly. I go back to stirring the eggs because they’re in danger of burning and I promised him a better-than-pancakes breakfast. I toss in some shredded cheese to make up for the bacon it’s too late to fry up now.

  “It’s kind of a long story, but the shorthand version is that once upon a time, my dad ran the garage and did racing engines on the side. I spent many a night at races with too-big earmuffs covering my ears from the racket. When I was about sixteen, Dad had a friend who died in a crash. It wasn’t even at a race, but he was showboating his hot rod—the one he built with Dad. It damn near killed my dad too, even though he wasn’t there. It just hurt him.” I absently rub at my chest, remembering Big John, Dad’s friend who had been larger than life until the tree he wrapped his car around had taken his. “Anyway, Dad went totally strict after that. He wanted everyone to live in this safe little bubble, for our own protection, you know? From then on, Cole Automotive only did maintenance and repairs for regular cars. Dad never even touched a racecar after that. Won’t so much as watch NASCAR these days.”

  Brody puts some puzzle pieces together. “And if you called Emily or Reed to bail you out on excessive speed charges, they’d tell your dad and he’d be pissed that you stepped out of the bubble of safety. So you’re trying to protect him while doing whatever the fuck you want?”

  I nod, plating our breakfast. He understands. The only question now is if he’ll understand.

  He chews thoughtfully. “This is good. Not as good as my pancakes, but damn good.”

  I growl at the topic change, and he smirks that grin that kills me. Or makes me want to kill him. Maybe both.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” I demand.

  “Okay, I won’t say anything. I just want to make sure I’m not getting in the middle of something major, like you’re the getaway driver for your family’s bank robbing side hustle or something. You drive fast? Okay.”

  “Stop saying okay.” I shake my head, not sure I heard him right.

  That shrug again, the one that’s driving me crazy with its casualness when I’m letting him in on something huge to me. But he’s just . . . accepting it?

  “I keep stuff from my family too, for their protection. My dad . . . we grew up good, but after Mom died, he didn’t . . . well, I guess you could say he didn’t handle it well. I bailed him out of the drunk tank a few times, kept my brothers and sister from the worst of it, and took the brunt of it. It was better that way.”

  I tease all that apart, the information between the words he actually said. Maybe he does understand me and what I’m doing. A tenuous thread weaves its way between us, something more than sex and flirting, dangerously closer to friendship. Or maybe even more.

  “Thank you.” It shouldn’t be hard to say that, but it is.

  “No problem, Lil Bit.” Our plates are empty, and he stands to pick mine up, planting a kiss to my lips before hitting the sink.

  I have no idea what just happened. I expected something dire, feared a harsh judgment, but none of that materialized and I’m not sure what to make of it. Brody is different from most, and I don’t think I gave him enough credit, making some pre-judgments of my own.

  He washes our dishes quickly and lays the towel out to dry. “I’m guessing you’ve got work today?” I nod, enjoying the show of him at my sink. “I should probably get to the ranch too.”

  He lets that hang in the air, giving me a chance to disagree.

  I make a spontaneous decision, praying it doesn’t kick me in the ass. “Do you want to come with me tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’d love to.” His answer is instant.

  “I didn’t tell you where or to do what yet,” I tease.

  “Bank robbery?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  I roll my eyes. “No, the track. I’m not racing, but some of my engines are. I never get to share that with anyone . . . well, the guys I build the cars for, but that’s not the same.”

  Smug satisfaction swipes over his face as he steps in and pulls our bodies together, looking down at me. “Not the same as me?”

  “Don’t get cocky, Cowboy.”

  He drops down, closer to my ear. “Well, I tried that, but you said we didn’t have time.”

  I push him away, laughing lightly. “Let’s get dressed. We’ve got shit to do today.”

  It’s a damn tragedy to watch Brody put his T-shirt and hat on, but I distract myself by pulling on a tank top and clean coveralls. We pause at the door so we can both put our boots on, smiling stupidly at the symmetry, though mine are covered with grease and oil and his are covered with dirt.

  Downstairs, Reed and Manuel both look up when the breakroom door opens, framing me. I can feel Brody’s presence looming behind me, but just as heavy is the look in Reed’s eyes.

  I walk with a purpose across the garage, not looking back once. Brody follows me, and though I can’t see, I imagine him and Reed are mean-mugging at each other in some dick-measuring, territory-pissing contest. A useless one because nothing they do will determine this situation. That’s all up to me.

  Outside, I pause by Brody’s truck. “You don’t need to do that. It only makes it harder on him.”

  Brody backs me up against the door, weaving his fingers into the hair at my nape and tracing his thumb over the freckles along my cheekbone. “That’s where you’re wrong. It pisses him off because it hurts, but it’s a kindness in a way. Unless you’re trying to string him along and keep him on the back burner?”