Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart 3)

Finally, he tore his attention away, looking into the distance before turning back to me. “I’m just . . . let me take a look at your car,” he seemed to settle on. He moved over to my car and tucked himself under the hood, while I just stood there, staring at him from behind.

Hating the pull he had on me.

Or maybe I was just really hating the way his snug jeans hugged his ridiculous butt.

I mean, the man was ridiculous.

Heck, I could probably snag a picture of that and post it up on my Instagram and get two-hundred thousand new followers.

Show him off like some kind of trophy.

The real problem was that I’d always wanted to keep him for myself.

I bit down on my lip as I watched him fiddle. He was muttering under his breath, wiggling some wires, before he planted both hands on the frame and glanced back at me.

That striking face pulled up into something that looked far too close to affection, and it made my mind twirl its way into stupid things.

It only made it worse when his lips twisted up at one side, something about it so sweet.

“I think I might be able to get this started for you.”

“Are you serious?” I might have clapped in excitement. But could you blame a girl? I needed this car fixed, and I didn’t have a lot of resources to make it happen. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

A rough chuckle left him, and he roughed a hand over his face, leaving a bit of grease on his forehead.

God, why was that so sexy?

“Glad I can get you worked up so easily.”

I bit down on my bottom lip, praying it would stop another rush of blood from rising to my cheeks.

Oh, if he only knew.

“If you were thinking you were gonna have to hike it ten miles in the heat and these heels, you’d get worked up, too.” I managed to get it out, as if talking with him was no big deal.

“You sure that’s what’s working you up?”

Okay, there it went. That flush breaking free, climbing my throat and splashing on my cheeks like evidence of impure thoughts.

Maxon laughed, and then reached out and casually squeezed my forearm. I gave it my best to keep my pulse from completely stampeding out of control.

No such luck.

“I’ll be right back. Let me grab some tools,” he said before he sauntered back to his SUV, the guy eating up the ground as if he owned it, going all the way to the tail end.

And I stood there hugging myself and gnawing at my lip.

Contemplating.

Taken by how he maybe seemed . . . different.

More mature.

Less bitter.

He’d always been cocky, but now he oozed confidence.

As if maybe he’d risen above the horrible things that had held him back. My heart of hearts told me that was what had come between us.

The problem was, he’d allowed it to. Had chosen to believe the lies instead of the truth, cast me aside so easily when it seemed like the easiest thing to do.

I’d had to believe he’d hurt me because he didn’t know anything else but pain. But that in no way excused what he’d done, either.

And there I was, back to asking the same question I’d asked Faith.

How would I ever know?

A minute later, he was back, a toolbox opened on the ground, hands swift and adept and rough, and I was getting hit again with a rush of chills.

Like a fool, I was standing there imagining what those hands might feel like gripping my hips.

Oh God, Izzy, don’t go there. No matter what happened, that was not a path we’d be repeating.

But it was hard to ignore those old feelings that were begging to be acknowledged.

Dark blond hair flopped across his brow that was lined in concentration, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple, and those muscles flexing with strength as he worked to get a bolt tightened back in its place.

“Why don’t you give it a whirl?” he rumbled, not looking back, still fiddling with something under the hood.

I rushed for the driver’s seat as quickly as I could in these stupid shoes, thankful for the distraction. Sliding in, I inhaled deeply and told myself again that this was all gonna turn out okay.

Holding my breath, I turned over the ignition, reminding the heavens that I did, in fact, believe in miracles.

I had two of them waiting for me at home.

It chugged but didn’t start.

Dang it.

“Hold on one sec,” he shouted.

I waited, my knee anxiously bouncing.

Metal clanked before he called, “Try it again.”

I turned the key, and the engine squealed before it chugged and rumbled to life.

Air escaped my lungs on a shot of relieved, disbelieving laughter.

He did it.

Oh my gosh, he did it.

All of that excitement and gratitude came bubbling over, and maybe I should have stayed in the car where it was safe, but I left it idling and pushed back out so I could thank him.