My nails dug into my palms. Why did I have to be attracted to this man? If given the choice, I’d rather be infatuated with fifty-year-old, married Tim Fultz. Maybe if I spoke to Nicolas, his terrible personality would make this strange attraction fade away. It was worth a try . . .
I turned around, leaned against the workbench, and ignored the nerves coursing through me about starting a conversation with him. “Your place is . . . nice. Not at all what I expected.”
He side-eyed me with a look that made my heart stutter, while working on something beneath the hood of the Gran Torino. “And what did you expect?”
I swallowed under his attention. A few words from him were more exciting than they should have been. “I guess I expected a little more . . . fire and brimstone.”
His gaze turned darkly entertained. “Hell.”
“Or padded rooms . . .”
He wiped the side of his face with his sleeve, his focus on his work. “For thinking I’m a psychopath, you don’t seem to fear being alone with me.”
“I can scream. Loudly.”
He glanced at me, like my words had an entirely different meaning—like he might like to hear me scream. My breathing became shallow.
The baseball game from the next house over filtered in, and I glanced out of the garage. Nicolas had a chain-link fence, no privacy . . . for someone in his profession, it wasn’t normal. “Your neighbors are so close,” I noted.
His expression sparked with dry amusement. “What, you think I shoot someone every time I eat lunch?”
I lifted a shoulder, biting my bottom lip.
He stared at me, and me at him. This conversation was doing nothing to ruin his appeal. He was slightly sweaty, grease-stained, and tattooed. None of which I thought I could appreciate until now. This strange attraction sank so deep, my cells shifted and grew heavy as they soaked it in.
“The only acts of violence I’ve committed this week have somehow revolved around you,” he pointed out.
“You mean last night when you promised you wouldn’t do anything? Was that one of them?” My words were sweet as I tilted my head.
“Wasn’t it you who called me a cheat, Elena?”
I wasn’t even sure how he did it, but my
name rolled off his lips in a low, suggestive drawl that ghosted across my skin like a shiver. Heat ran between my legs.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
I grew flustered. “You know what you’re doing. Stop.”
He walked toward me with a car part, setting it on the workbench. My entire side tingled at his proximity a couple feet away. I turned in his direction and leaned my hip against the table. I didn’t know what I was doing in here, watching him work, but it was almost . . . thrilling. Like living on the edge. Who would rather sit in the car?
He took a similar-looking part out of a box. I couldn’t believe he did his own mechanic work. I guessed even men like him had to have a hobby.
“What are you doing with Benito?” His tone seeped with indifference, but interest shone through.
“We’re going to a pool party.”
After a moment, he said, “Tyler Whitmore’s, I imagine.”
“Yeah—” I froze. I knew this interaction was going over too smoothly. “Why do you know his last name?”
“You can find out anything these days, Elena.” He said it with a dark edge, while wiping his hands off.
My teeth clenched. “I didn’t ask how, I asked why.”
His gaze came my way, hard and intimidating. “I’m marrying into your family. That makes your business now mine.”