Billy Hargrove hated paperwork.

He wasn’t built for numbers or receipts or neatly filled-out forms with little carbon copies. But if it meant walking across the garage floor and dropping it off at her desk, he’d deal with it.

The office was quieter than usual, the hum of the fan doing little against the heat, and the scent of oil clung to his skin like a second layer. He ran a hand through his hair—still damp from the quick rinse he took after dealing with a busted transmission—and leaned against the doorway of the front desk area like he had all the time in the goddamn world.

There she was. Same as always. Perfect posture, hair pulled back, pen tapping against the clipboard. So clean. So sharp. So completely unimpressed with him. Painfully pretty.

She didn’t look up. She never did, not really. Not unless she had to.

Funny, he thought. Most girls would kill to have me this close. She won’t even look at me like I’m worth her oxygen.

He remembered her from high school. Not for herself—no offense—but for who she used to walk around with. That shy brunette with the crush who he definitely… didn’t treat like a gentleman. What was her name again? Christ.

Didn’t matter.

What mattered was that this girl—this receptionist with the pretty mouth and cold eyes—still looked at him like she had a bone to pick. Or maybe like she’d already picked it, and buried it six feet under.

Billy dropped the folder onto the desk with a little more force than necessary. “Got your damn quote.”

Still no eye contact. That was almost impressive.

He tilted his head, giving her that slow smirk—the one that used to work every time. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoidin’ me.”

A pause. Just long enough. Then, casual as ever:

“You always this sweet to coworkers, or is it just me you hate?”