Page 45 of Her Dirty Defender

I march past him, snatching a wrench from my workbench with more force than necessary. “Why are you in my garage?”

“Jerry’s making a weird noise.”

I freeze and turn slowly. “Who told you about Jerry?”

His mouth quirks up. “Angus mentioned his truck was acting up. Didn’t realize the vehicle had a name.”

“All machines have personalities.” I grab my toolbox, trying to ignore how his presence fills the space. “Some are just more... particular than others. He’s temperamental.” I pat the truck’s hood. “But he means well.”

Beckett’s grin widens. “You name all your machines?”

“Obviously.” I gesture to the ancient tractor in the corner. “That’s Martha. She’s got a good soul; she just needs extra coaxing in the mornings.” I point to the engine block on my workbench. “Hank—loud but reliable. And Gloria—” I nod toward the massive air compressor. “She’s dramatic but gets the job done.”

“And what about me?” His voice drops lower, closer. “Do I get a name?”

My wrench slips, and my knuckles scrape against metal. “You have to earn it.”

“Challenge accepted.” The words ghost across my neck as he reaches past me for a sanding block. “What do I have to do to earn it? More orgasms like yesterday?”

My breath catches as I recall his mouth hot against mine, his thick, talented finger pressing and circling my?—

No. Nope. Nu-uh. Not thinking about that.

“Focus on the truck,” I manage to say, my voice only slightly steadier than my heartbeat.

“I am.” He hands me the wrench, fingers brushing mine deliberately. “But multitasking is a specialty of mine.”

The memory of exactly how good he is at multitasking floods my mind. Heat crawls up my neck.This is fine. Totally fine. Just me, a sweaty mess, and six-feet-four of smug temptation.

I pop Jerry’s hood, hoping work will distract me from Beckett’s heated gaze. “So, what’s the noise?”

“Sort of a clicking when it idles.” He moves closer, and the space under the hood suddenly feels intimate. “Want me to start it up?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. As he slides into the driver's seat, I try to focus on the engine. But all I can think about is how his scent lingers—clean soap, leather, and something deeper that makes my pulse skip.

Why does he have to smell so unfairly good? It should be illegal to weaponize pheromones like this.

The engine turns over with a distinctiveclick-click-click.

“Hear that?” His voice carries from the cab.

“Yeah.” I lean in, trying to pinpoint the sound. “Keep it running.”

He appears at my shoulder, way too close. “Need anything?”

Tools. I need tools. Focus on tools. “Three-eighths socket wrench.”

Our fingers brush as he hands me the wrench. A jolt of awareness shoots through me, and the wrench slips.

Beckett catches it before it hits the ground. “Careful.” His voice drops lower. “Wouldn't want you getting distracted.”

My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.Great. He’s hot and competent. I’m doomed.

I tighten a bolt with more force than necessary. “I'm not distracted.”

“Mm-hmm.” He reaches past me for the diagnostic reader, his arm grazing mine. His skin is warm—too warm.I swear, he's radiating actual body heat like a smug, sentient space heater.“And how's that working out for you?”

Although he isn’t touching me, the heat radiating off him short-circuits my brain, turning rational thought to static. “You're doing this on purpose.”

---