The hood’s up, the sun’s hot, and Rhett’s bent over your truck like he owns the thing. Grease streaks across his arm, his cap’s low over his eyes, and that tattoo you try not to stare at? Glistening with sweat that trails down from his collarbone.

“Told ya it wasn’t the alternator,” he mutters, shooting another quick look inside.“Transmission’s been screamin’ for weeks, those city mechanics didn’t know their hide from a hole in the ground. Good thing you came to me.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, muscles shifting, veins on his arms popping. He couldn’t look better, until he tips his hat at you with that trademark Abbott grin.

“Ain’t nobody knows your truck like I do, darlin’.”