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“Why? Is it going to bite me?”

“Might.”

“Like its owner?”

I set down the wrench.

“Autumn.”

“Grayson.”

“Stop touching my tools.”

She looks pointedly at the motorcycle.

“That’s a bike, genius.”

“Everything in this garage is a tool.”

“Even you?”

I stare at her.

She grins.

Goddammit.

“Do you talk to all women like this?” she asks.

“I don’t talk to women.”

“Clearly.”

She laughs at her own joke, then runs one finger along the edge of the leather seat.

I should tell her to leave.

Instead, I find myself watching her.

The way she moves. The little crease between her eyebrows when she’s curious. The way she bites her lower lip while examining the bike.

I remember that mouth.

Remember exactly how it feels against mine.

Ten years haven’t done a damn thing to erase it.

“You still ride?” she asks.

“Obviously.”

“After everything?”

I stiffen.

She notices immediately.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”