Page 11 of Ice Mechanic

Her window winds down and she peers at me, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as if contemplating whether she should spare the potted plant and return to me as her original target.

“Finally ready to exchange names?” I ask, flashing another, encouraging grin.

“I’ll go first,” she says stiffly.

“Of course. Ladies first.”

She parks the car, shoves her door open and slams to the ground with a huff. “First name—‘your’. Last name ‘mechanic’.”

CHAPTER

FOUR

APRIL

“You’rea mechanic?”Prince Eric says with an emphasis on the ‘you’.

Although I’ve gotten this very reaction a million times, it’s still annoying.

“Could you step back… please?” I throw out the ‘please’ through gritted teeth.

“You?”

The flabbergasted look on his face is, frankly, off-putting.

Rather than answer, I use the rear wheel of my pickup to mount myself up. Wiggling my sneakers forward for balance, I fold back the tarp. The loud rustling sound is like a crack of thunder in the empty parking lot.

Sticking my hand in the bed, I push away the boxes of clothes I’ve been meaning to drop off at our local Goodwill and grab my toolbox. The moment I swing it over my shoulder and prepare to launch to the ground, Prince Eric appears beneath me.

“Whoa. Let me help you with that,” he says, muscular arms reaching for the kit.

“I’ve got it,” I mutter. “Just get out of the way.”

Despite my words, Prince Ursula stops right where I’m catapulting myself and my heavy toolbox from the bed of the truck.

I’m already mid-jump, so all I can do is let out a loud, goat-likeblaaah!as my toolbox makes a very clear and axe-saw-murdering arc toward the side of Prince Eric’s head.

Thankfully, his athleticism kicks in before I can end up on the nightly news for bludgeoning our newest Lucky Striker outside the stadium.

He leaps back, missing my tool box by a hair.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t account for the fact thatI’mattached to the toolbox.

There’s no time for a course correct. Our bodies collide in a mash of arms, legs, and more embarrassing goat noises.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his arm secure around my waist and his eyes intent on me. They’re a dark, swirling blue. Like the ocean right before nightfall.

I massage my temple, feeling a dull ache in my head. I’m pretty sure ramming headfirst into a brick wall would have had the same effect. What’s this guy made of? Steel?

“How many fingers am I holding up?” He waves a peace sign under my nose.

“I’m fine,” I say, scrambling up to prove the point.

He sits up more slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Just hand me your keys.”

He climbs to his feet and takes out the keys, but he hesitates when I move to take them.

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