Page 41 of My Hotshot

I stood there like an idiot, watching him—broad shoulders under black leather, strong hands scrolling on a cracked phone screen, looking completely at home in my entryway.

Just like that, I knew I was in trouble.

And I didn’t want to stop it.

“Pizza should be here in twenty minutes,” Duane said, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Dee’s makes the best pizza in town.”

I nodded and shifted my weight against the counter. “Good to know. Lottie and I were less than impressed the last time we ordered pizza. She said it tasted like cardboard.”

Duane chuckled, and for a moment, we just stood there in silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was… comfortable. Easy. Just like it used to be, back when all we had to worry about was passing our history tests and scraping up enough gas money to get out of town for the weekend.

“So,” I drawled, and glanced over at him, “what have you been up to?”

He gave a small shrug. “Little of this, little of that,” he said vaguely. “Busy dealing with some club stuff.”

I nodded. That definitely sounded important, but also veryoff limits. “Nice,” I said, even though I had no idea what I was supposed to do with that response.

“What about you, babe? You get your painting done?” His gaze wandered around the living room, noting that nothing had changed.

I laughed. “I’veboughtthe paint. Now I just need to actually do the hard part.” I walked to the fridge and pulled out a beer and a bottle of water. “I’m hoping to work on it next week. Took off Wednesday and Thursday to hammer it out.”

“No wine tonight?” he asked, raising a brow.

I handed him the beer and shook my head. “That’s a negative. Clear head tonight.”

He cracked the bottle open, then leaned back. “What do you do for work?”

“Marketing,” I replied. “I work freelance for a few companies. They keep me busy.”

He smirked. “No clue what that actually means, babe, but I’m sure you’re great at it.”

I gave him a lopsided grin. “I make a living, so I must be doing something right. What about you?”

“The club and the garage keep me plenty busy.”

I tilted my head. “You don’t have a job?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I do. I work for the garage the club owns. Mechanic.”

“Ah,” I said with a nod. “That feels very on-brand for you. You were always working on your truck.”

He laughed harder at that. “That’s because it was a piece of shit. I didn’t have a choice but to work on it or push it everywhere I wanted to go.” He pulled out one of the stools under the kitchen island and sat.

I leaned against the counter across from him, closing the space between us just a little. “Yeah, I remember breaking down on the side of the road with you more than once.”

He grinned. “I think we had more good times broken down than most people have on planned dates.”

He wasn’t wrong. For some reason, with Duane, it had never mattered where we were. He always made things feel like an adventure. Something Lee had never managed to do—not once.

“What are you thinking about, babe?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied my face.

I blinked and gave a small smile. “Nothing. Just… life, I guess.”

His lips curled. “That sounds like the perfect setup for me to ask what you’ve been doing the past fifteen years. I know you’ve got Lottie, but something tells me there’s a lot more to your story.”

I looked him over. “I don’t know. Judging by all the tattoos, I thinkyourstory is a lot more interesting.”

Duane glanced down at his arms and smirked. “These? Most of ‘em are just dumb shit I got on drunken nights or stuff I thought looked cool.”

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