Page 146 of Broken Pieces
I don’t look at him. Don’t give him that satisfaction.
“Ignore him,” I tell her.
She shrugs like she doesn’t care, but I see it. The way her fingers twitch at the edge of the plate. The tiny shift in her stance. The way her eyes don’t meet mine.
“It’s a cheese melt,” she mutters.
She hands it over. I take it. Our fingers brush.
I lean against the car.
She follows, settling beside me without a word.
We both stare ahead, not talking, not touching, but every part of me is tuned to her.
I take a bite. The cheese burns my tongue, but I swallow anyway.
“You made this?”
She nods, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not hard.”
“No, but it’s good.”
That almost-smile flickers. Just a twitch of her mouth, as if she doesn’t want me to see she’s proud of it. But it’s there.
Mason’s still watching her. Arms crossed, leaning against the tool rack like he owns the place. His gaze drags over Skylar’s body again, slow and obvious.
Every part of me screams to walk over and make him turn the fuck away. But I stay where I am, even though it fucking kills me.
I take another bite, eyes still on her.
She’s not looking at him now, but I see the way her shoulders stiffen, the way she steps a little closer to me without even thinking.
“You wanna see what I’ve been working on?” I ask. My voice comes out low. Less of an offer, more of a distraction.
She hesitates. Her eyes flick to the car, then back to me. Curiosity wins.
“Yeah.”
I set the plate on the workbench and nod toward the open hood. She steps closer. I reach out before she can move past the jack.
“Watch your step,” I murmur, fingers grazing her waist, steadying her without thinking.
She nods.
There’s oil on my hand. It smudges her shirt, but she doesn’t say anything.
I lead her over to the car Rainer gave me, keeping close. Not touching, but still there. Every movement she makes pulls at something in me. Every breath she takes, I want to bottle it.
“This here,” I point, forcing myself to focus, “is a piece of shit that hasn’t run right in five years. But I’m getting there.”
Her eyes skim over the wires, the grime, the tools.
She leans in, close enough for her shoulder to brush mine. Her voice is soft.
“How do you know what’s wrong with it?”
I glance at her.
