Page 21 of Selfish Suit

I’m headed to the garage, scrolling through the Ferrera deck on my tablet, when a godawful metal-on-metal screech cuts through the silence like a chainsaw on steel.

I stop walking.

The sound comes again—something between a grinding cough and a guttural scream.

I look down the row that holds part of my car collection, and then I spot something gray swaying.

Ivy’s skirt…

Bent over the hood of a rusted Honda, she has one knee on the bumper, a wire hanger clenched in her fingers, and a don’t-mess-with-me glare aimed straight at the engine block.

The air in here is thick—humid from trapped heat, with the tang of engine oil and burnt rubber. Her perfume floats faintly above it, sweet and stubborn.

Amused, I take my time walking over.

She doesn’t notice me—until the engine turns over with an angry wheeze and she slams the hood shut like she just slayed a beast.

Then she circles to the back and peels off her blazer. Then she crouches to wrap it around the tailpipe like a makeshift bandage.

Her blouse stretches across her ass. Her legs flex.

I quietly adjust my belt before she can see me.

“You know,” I say, stepping into view, “you’d make a decent mechanic. Assuming the hanger doesn’t electrocute you first.”

She jumps up. “Thank you for the compliment… I think.”

“Would you like some help?”

“No, I’m fine.” She waves me away. “I do this all the time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I glance at her hands. “That wire’s too hot for you to not have gloves on with it.”

“Like I said, I do this all the time, Mr. Sutton.” She pronounces my name like I have the plague, like we’re back to square one. “I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

She dismisses me with another flick of her hand and slides into the driver’s seat.

I step back as she revs the engine, but it lets out its loudest groan of the night… and then heavy plumes of smoke unfurl from under the hood, spewing all over my garage.

She doesn’t get out, though.

She keeps her hands gripped on the steering wheel. Then she tries to start the piece of junk again.

Jesus…

I walk to the passenger side and pull the door open.

“Get out of this death trap, Miss Locke,” I say. “I’ll take you home.”

“This has happened plenty of times before.” She’s in denial. “If you want to watch it come to life within the next twenty minutes, stand right there and be my guest.”

“If you don’t get out within twenty seconds, I’ll be pulling you out.”

She doesn’t move.

But then her eyes flick up to mine, wide and unreadable. Even in denial (and distress), she looks sexy as hell.

“I’m not interested in being your charity case,” she mutters. “I’ll call a cab.”

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