Harley
Oops. Remember when I said I'd probably die of embarrassment if someone saw the mess I made trying to figure out which zipper to pull—up, down, sideways? Yeah, well, I spoke too soon.
Because just when I thought I'd fake an ankle injury to avoid facing the world in a half-worn mechanic's jumpsuit, in came Drake. Tall, devastatingly attractive, and exuding that I-fix-engines-and-hearts kind of energy, he barged right into the ladies' changing room—zero hesitation, maximum efficiency—and rescued me.
From the outfit. From myself.
The problem now?
Try him, kneeling in front of me—yes, right there—at hip level, calloused hands firmly on my waist as he tied the top half of the overalls around me like it was the most casual thing in the world. Meanwhile, my skin was turning traitorously warm, my black tank top underneath now pulling tight across my chest and cinched perfectly at the waist, drawing attention to every area I did not want noticed by someone this... potent.
