My car died a mile outside a town I'd never heard of, my ex kept the apartment, and now the only man who can fix my engine wants me to work the bill off in his shop. Fine. Great. I've got nowhere to be and a mouth that won't quit.

I'm straight, obviously. Got the ex-girlfriends to prove it. So there's no reason my hands go stupid every time August leans over the hood next to me. No reason I keep inventing jobs to stay after the work's done. And no reason the one man in the county who won't rise to a word I say should be the first thing I look for every morning.

August Halloran is forty-nine, built like the muscle cars he restores, and completely unbothered by me. Which is new, and rude, and I can't leave it alone.

Then he calls my bluff.


Turns out the only thing I'm worse at than fixing cars is backing down from a dare. Even when the dare's to myself. Even when winning means finding out exactly what I've been running my mouth all week to keep from saying.