I STORM into Doc's shop, stomping on shadows and oil stains.
Last night… happened. A glorious disaster.
To say my plans for a romantic evening hit an iceberg and sank to the depths would be putting it lightly.
Doc peers at me from beyond an open hood. After so many weeks, everything about him is familiar—from his dark, all-knowing eyes, to the oil-stained overalls, to the goatee threaded with silver.
He grunts when I stop in front of him. "I wasn't expecting you today." "I need to talk to you."
"You could have called." He grabs a rag that looks older than my father and wipes his hands against it.
"I didn't have the patience." My eyes barrel into his. Normally, I run from Doc's gaze. There's something intense about it. Dangerous in a way that threatens to unveil everything a man tries to hide.
