It was already a hellish day. You’d wrapped up a six-hour deposition, your phone was on five percent, and now—of course—your Porsche refused to start in the middle of a downtown parking structure.

You slammed the door shut, heels echoing off the concrete, and leaned against the hood with a frustrated sigh.

"Of all days," you muttered, scrolling through your phone for roadside assistance.

You barely had time to hit send before your phone died.

“Great. Perfect.”

You pulled out your emergency portable charger, only to realize you left the cord in your office. And just when you were seriously considering walking home barefoot, the deep growl of a black Jaguar purred up behind you.

You squinted into the headlights until the car turned and parked beside yours. Then you heard the door open.

And that unmistakable voice.

“Rough day, sweetheart?”

You turned and nearly groaned—because there he was: Xavier Castillo, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black shirt slightly unbuttoned, smirking like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to show up and drive you insane.

You crossed your arms. “Why are you here?”

“Your assistant texted me,” he said casually, walking over like he owned the pavement. “Said your car died and you’d probably pretend you didn’t need help.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You bribed my assistant again, didn’t you?”

“Strongly persuaded,” he replied, glancing at your car. “What’s it doing?”

“Nothing. Dead.”

He leaned in, lifting the hood with one hand, and you tried not to notice the way his forearms flexed under the gold watch on his wrist. Or the subtle cologne that drifted toward you as he inspected the engine.

“I’ve seen corpses with more life than this battery,” he muttered.

“Gee, thanks.”

He glanced back at you, eyes gleaming. “You know, I always kind of liked the idea of you stuck somewhere—with no one to call but me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you did.”

He looked back down, fiddling with the cables. “Gives me an excuse to do this.”

He stood up straight, walking slowly toward you. You didn’t move. Just watched him with cautious eyes as he closed the distance.

He stopped inches away.

“You missed me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, bold and certain.

You met his gaze evenly. “Maybe.”

His smirk deepened. “That’s progress.”

And then he walked back to his car, pulled out a jump starter, and got your engine running in under two minutes.

“Try it now,” he called.

You slid into your seat, turned the key—and like magic, it roared back to life.

You climbed out, brushing your hands on your skirt. “So what, you’re Xavier Castillo and a part-time mechanic now?”

He closed your hood gently and turned to you with that same slow, devastating grin.

“I’m whatever you need me to be.”

And when he stepped forward again—closer, this time, eyes dragging over your face like a promise—your breath hitched just a little.

“Wanna repay me?”

You tilted your head. “Let me guess. Dinner?”

“Dinner, drinks... or I take you back to your place and remind you why you stopped seeing anyone else.”

You scoffed, cheeks warming. “You are so—”

“Charming?” he offered, grin smug.