Chapter Two: Tight Spaces and Teasing Looks

The air in the garage felt thicker whenever Freya was near.

Nick noticed it the second she stepped inside on that quiet Tuesday afternoon. There was no one else around—just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint scent of oil, and the rhythmic beat of music playing from an old speaker in the corner. He was under the hood of a GTO, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grease.

Freya's heels clicked against the floor, measured and teasing. She was in a silky champagne blouse tucked into black slacks that seemed tailored to her every curve. A gold chain rested just above the dip in her neckline, and when she stopped at the edge of the work bay, Nick had to pause what he was doing just to breathe.

"Came to check on my girl," she said, nodding toward her Mustang.

Nick straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. "She's running better than ever. But I have a feeling you already knew that."

"I did." Her smile curved knowingly. "Truth is, I missed the shop."

He arched a brow. "Or just the mechanic?"

Freya shrugged innocently. "Maybe I missed the way you stare when you think I'm not looking."

Nick tossed the rag aside. "I'm always looking."

That made her laugh—a deep, sultry sound that echoed in the open space and wrapped around him like a glove. She walked over slowly, her hand brushing against the metal fender of the car as she moved closer.

He watched the way her hips moved under those slacks, the slight sway of her chest beneath the silk blouse. Every motion seemed choreographed to distract, to seduce without a single touch.

"Got anything that needs fixing?" he asked.

Her gaze dropped briefly to his hands—broad, strong, still smudged with oil. "Maybe."

"Car-related or otherwise?"

Freya stepped in closer, her voice low. "What if it's me that needs tuning?"

Nick didn't move—didn't blink. The space between them was thin now, electric.

"What kind of tune-up are we talking?" he asked, his voice a little rougher.

Freya reached out, almost brushing his chest, but pulled back just enough to let him feel the absence. Her fingers ghosted over the air between them.

"The kind that makes everything hum."

Nick swallowed. He didn't touch her. Not yet. But his body leaned in ever so slightly, his breath catching the scent of her perfume—floral and rich, like a memory that refused to fade.

"Problem is," he murmured, "once I get started… I don't stop halfway."

She tilted her chin up, her voice a breath. "Then don't."

---

The tension built in the silence.

Nick turned, walking toward her Mustang. "Let me show you something," he said.

Freya followed, eyes glued to the way his shirt stretched across his back. He opened the driver's door, then turned back to her, hand outstretched.

"Come here."

She took it, sliding into the seat as he knelt beside the open door.

"Now listen," he said, turning the key.

The engine roared to life—smooth, powerful, and resonant.

"You feel that?" he asked.

She nodded. "She purrs."

Nick leaned in closer, his face near hers. "Just like I imagined you would."

Freya inhaled sharply.

He didn't touch her—not yet. But he stayed there, his hand resting just beside her thigh on the seat, his body crowding the small space between them.

Her breath grew shallow.

"I could make her scream if I wanted to," Nick said, gaze steady on her lips.

Freya's voice was low. "And me?"

Nick's lips twitched into a smirk, his eyes dark. "You already are."

---

They didn't kiss that day either.

But when Freya stepped out of the car, her blouse had shifted ever so slightly—just enough to hint at the lace of her bra. Nick didn't comment. He didn't have to.

She noticed his stare and gave him a wicked smile.

"Next time," she whispered.

And just like that, she was gone.

But her scent stayed behind. So did the ache in his jaw. The heat in his gut. The way her voice echoed in his ears like a dare.

Freya was the kind of woman who made you want things.

And Nick was the kind of man who didn't like waiting.