Toby was already sweating when he walked into the garage. Not because of the heat, though the place was stifling. No fans. No breeze. Just the scent of engine oil, motor grease, and raw masculinity.
The kind of place where secrets happened.
He wiped his palms on his jeans and stepped in deeper. His girlfriend’s dad was crouched beside the motorcycle, bare-chested, shoulders thick and sun-kissed, tattoos curling over his biceps. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, waistband curling slightly. Every movement made the muscles in his back ripple.
Toby cleared his throat. “She said she’d be twenty minutes late. Got held up at work.”
The man didn’t look up right away. He kept working, wrench in hand, adjusting something on the bike. Finally, he spoke.
“Figured.” His voice was low. Rough. A
