My car died on a deserted highway, leaving me stranded under a flickering streetlight. I’d managed to coast into a grimy auto shop just off the exit, the neon sign buzzing “Open 24/7.” It was past midnight, and I was pissed, my heels sinking into the gravel lot.
The garage was a mess—tools scattered, oil stains pooling on the concrete. The air was thick with the sharp sting of motor oil and metal, a lone fluorescent light buzzing overhead. I clutched my purse, my tight skirt riding up, already regretting this night.
Jace, the mechanic, was wiping his hands on a rag when I walked in. His grease-streaked forearms flexed, his tank top clinging to a broad chest, and his eyes raked over me, bold and unapologetic. My pulse kicked up, a mix of irritation and something hotter.
“You’re in a bind
