Page 25 of Ice Mechanic

I fall despondently into the chair and run my hands over my face. Then I run my hands over my hair. Then I do both repeatedly until my hair’s a mess and my face is red.

Charming women is easy… when they’re interested. But how do I convince April to date me when I’m ninety percent sure she would save my Lamborgini over me if we both fell into the ocean?

CHAPTER

EIGHT

APRIL

“I heardyou’re dating Chance McLanely.”

I stop my inspection of the oxygen sensor and glare a hole at the rhinestone pink sneakers jutting beneath the car. “Don’t start. I’ve had enough of that today.”

“Do tell.”

I push the creeper out into the open. Both me and the tool go skidding and the garage’s bright white ceiling comes into view.

Lying flat, I stare up at my best friend. “For starters, I’ve been invited to group chats I didn’t know existed.”

Rebel drops to her haunches, a mischievous grin on her face. “Oh?”

“Did you know there’s a Sexiest Men Alive society? Because I didn’t. Not until I became the newest member of their group chat and they creepily asked if I could sell them shirtless pictures of Chance McLanely.”

“Sexiest Men Alive society? Now that sounds like fun.” Rebel grins.

I hand over my phone. “It’s not fun to know a ton of strangers have your phone number.”

“Whoa, that’s a lot of messages.” Her eyes widen. “They’re all strangers?”

“Some of them. Some are people I haven’t talked to since high school who suddenly want to grab a coffee.”

“That’s… surreal.”

“Surreal’s not the word I would choose. Sickening? Disappointing? Fake as a fern in the dentist’s office?”

Rebel laughs in her restrained, lady-like way. “That last one would count as a sentence, not a word, no?”

“Don’t lecture me. I’m not done venting.”

Rebel makes a go-ahead gesture.

“Everyone has unanimously decided that I—an ordinary woman from an ordinary town—am extremely important. Not because of all my engine repair certifications, or because I have the monetary equivalent of a college degree in diagnostic tools. Nope, it’s all because of a stupid article about a stupid hockey player that a stupid journalist didn’t even bother to fact check!”

“Now, why would you lump me in with the stupid journalist and his stupid article?” A voice that doesnotbelong to Rebel bounces around our empty garage.

I gasp and shoot to my feet. In my rush, I send the creeper skidding straight at the man in the doorway. He easily stops it with his foot and snaps it up with the toe of his sneakers.

“Cool.” Chance inspects the creeper. “What’s this? A skateboard?”

“What are you doing here?” I gape.

He sets the creeper down and walks deeper into the shop. Immediately, his large presence sucks the air out of the room and makes everything feel smaller.

My eyes slide down his frame like I’m following the lines of a wiring diagram for a 1996 Chevy. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with his number and last name on the back. The fabric hugs hisbroad shoulders. Faded blue jeans go on and on until they reach his sneakers.

It isveryunfair that the hoodie-jeans combo—which adds at least thirty pounds and an extra layer of ‘frump’ to my body—is dazzling on Chance.

“I came to see you,” he says with a grin that shows nothing of our tense goodbye yesterday at the hotel parking lot.

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