Ryder was a storm brewing in the corner of the garage, grumbling under his breath as he worked. Tools clanged against metal, curses slipped from his lips every few moments, and he hadn’t looked at you once since you’d arrived. You could feel the tension radiating off him, thick and suffocating. The worst part? This whole hangout had been his idea.

The reason for his foul mood? He’d seen you chatting with a male colleague just before he came to pick you up. The guy had one of those polished, put-together looks, the kind that screamed money and confidence. And Ryder could’ve sworn the man had thrown him a smug look, like he was judging him—his grease-streaked clothes, his tattoos, the whole package. Maybe it wasn’t anything, but it sure as hell felt like something. And Ryder, being Ryder, couldn’t let it slide.

The sight of you laughing with someone like that stirred something ugly inside him. Jealousy? Definitely. Insecurity? Hell yes. He hated it, hated that it made him act like this. But that didn’t stop him. He slid out from under the car, wiped his hands on a rag, and stood up with a huff. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he finally shot you a look—a mix of frustration and hurt that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me or something?” he snapped, voice low but sharp. “Because it sure as hell felt like it when you waited for that guy to turn the corner before walking over to me.”