Page 13 of The Mechanic's Virgin

I stuff my dick up into my waistband as I button my fly. It’s the only way I can fit my hard-on into my pants and manage to walk. I’m still horny as all hell after walking out on Grace, something I feel horrible for doing. I was about to take her for the first time. I was almost in when the boys showed up and ruined everything.

This better be important. But as I shove the door open and step out into the evening air, I see the look on their faces, and I knowexactlywhy they’re here.

“She’s here,” Craig says, his voice stiff.

“At the shop,” Nick, my other mechanic, adds.

Rage fills my chest. I look for something to punch, but there’s nothing close by but a brick wall, and I don’t feel like breaking my knuckles.

“Atthisgoddamn hour?” I growl.

“I was working on that Rolls,” Nick says. “When they rolled up. We figured you needed to know.”

I nod, trying to keep it together. “You were right.” I sigh and close my eyes.Focus. Remain calm. I open them again and give the boys a nod. “Go home. I’ll handle her. See you tomorrow.”

Neither of them says anything. They just head back to Craig’s truck, get in, and pull away. I stand there alone for a moment, picturing Grace back up in my bedroom, getting her clothes on. She’s probably wondering how I could just walk out on her. How I could leave her there.

All I can do is pray that she knows just how infatuated with her I am. That she believed me when I told her I would be back to take her.

I look up at the light of my bedroom. I see her silhouette as she stands, naked as the day she was born. She’s looking down at me, but the shadows obscure her face. All I want to do is race back up there to her and ravage her, but I have this major obstacle in my life I still need to address if I’m ever going to be able to make a life with her. So I turn around, get in my truck, and drive to the shop.

Her black SUVis already there when I pull into the parking lot. It looks like the car a mafia boss drives around in, but it really just belongs to a lawyer–herlawyer.

As I park, Sheila Cosgrove steps out. Sheila is my ex and my worst nightmare. A vindictive, insane villain who when I broke up with her two years ago filed fake sexual harassment charges against me.

She lost the suit, as I was innocent, but it cost me half my net worth in legal fees and nearly cost me my business. She cornered me at the coffee shop one day and told me that if I took her back,she’d drop all charges. I told her to get lost, and my lawyer told me her statement would be rejected as pure hearsay.

She strides over to me like a viper, clad in a shimmering black suit that she no doubt bought with Daddy’s money.

“Nash Mason,” she hisses, her voice like an oil slick. “We need to talk.”

My muscles stiffen, and I shake my head. “Nope. We don’t.”

She raises an aggressive eyebrow. “In front of a witness this time.”

Cora, her equally psychotic cousin, sits in the front seat and smirks at me like a child. Sheila smiles. “It’s a shame things had to go this wayagain, Nash.”

“The judge threw your case out, Sheila. You lost. Go home.”

Her eyes flash venomously. “A technicality. But things change, Nash. Especially when new evidence comes to light.”

New evidence? What the hell is she talking about? Sheila is a liar and always will be. It’s one of the main reasons I dumped her in the first place. She’s also incapable of admitting when she’s lost, which is why she’s here now, trying to continue her fight between us.

“Fine,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Talk.”

She tries to hide it, but I catch her dragging her eyes up my body, her gaze lingering on my hands. She always used to love my hands.

“I have a plane ticket, Nash.”

I shrug. “And?”

“I’m moving back,” she says, causing my bones to go cold. “And I think you owe me…an explanation.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone, swipes, and points it at me. My heart skips a beat. On the screen is a photo of Grace and me, standing by her Rolls Royce. It was clearly taken yesterday, from afar, like a spy photo from a private detective or something.

“You’re…spyingon me, Sheila?”

She snickers. “I wouldn’t sayspying. More like checking up on you.”

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