Divorced And Rich: Falling For The Mechanic

The kitchen was hot, but it was a good heat. The oven was cranked to 375 degrees, and the smell of browning cheese and bubbling tomato sauce filled the small cabin. Adeline stirred the meat sauce on the stove, adding a pinch of red pepper flakes. It felt good to cook for people who actually did something to earn it. Not for ungrateful parasites who complained the meat was too lean. She pulled the lasagna out of the oven. It was perfect. Golden brown, crispy edges, rich and thick. She covered it with foil and grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter-just in case-and walked out the door. The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple. The walk to the Smith property was short, just through the tree line. She heard the noise before she saw them. The clanging of metal. The roar of an engine. She stepped out of the trees into the Smith yard. There was a single-wide trailer, neat and clean, with a large workshop off to the side. And there was Jarrett. He was bent over the open hood of an old Chevy truck. He was shirtless. Adeline stopped dead. His back was a map of muscle. Tanned skin slick with sweat, shifting and bunching as he tightened a bolt with a wrench. A smear of black grease ran down his shoulder blade. He had a small metal part clamped between his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing as he worked. The air left her lungs. Her heart did a hard thump against her ribs, then started racing. Bailey had been soft. Pale. He went to a gym to stay fit, but he never worked a day in his life. This man was different. He was built for labor. For strength. He smelled like oil and sweat and man. Jarrett straightened up, pulling the part from his mouth. He turned his head. His eyes locked onto hers. For a split second, the wrench in his hand stilled. He hadn't expected to see her this close, this soon. He saw the flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes widened slightly, and something tightened in his chest. Adeline felt her face burn. She was standing there, holding a casserole dish, staring at him like she had never seen a man before. "Jarrett," she squeaked. She cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. "I... I made this. For you and your brothers. To say thank you." Jarrett looked at the dish, then back at her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes seemed darker, intent. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of grease. "Mcconnell," he said, his voice rough. Adeline realized he wasn't going to take it. His hands were covered in black grime. She couldn't expect him to touch the dish. "I'll just... set it here!" she blurted out. She practically ran to the steps of the trailer, her knees wobbly. She placed the dish down carefully. "For dinner. It's still hot." She turned to leave, desperate to escape the intensity of his gaze. "Adeline." Her name on his lips stopped her. It was the first time he had used it. She glanced back over her shoulder. He was still standing by the truck, his chest rising and falling slowly. "It's Jarrett," he said. She nodded quickly, her face on fire. "Jarrett." She fled. She walked fast, then faster, until she was safely inside her own cabin, the door shut behind her. She leaned her back against the wood, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her ears. Outside, Jarrett watched the door of the cabin close. He let out a slow breath. He walked over to the steps and picked up the dish. The foil was still steaming. He lifted a corner. The smell of garlic and cheese hit him. He dipped a finger-the only clean one he had-into the edge of the sauce. He brought it to his lips. The flavor exploded on his tongue. Rich, tangy, with a kick of heat. He stared at the cabin door. He could see the silhouette moving behind the curtains. Three years. Three years of watching her from a distance. Three years of making sure the roads were safe when she drove home late. Three years of keeping his distance because she wore another man's ring. But the ring was gone now. He picked up the dish and walked inside the trailer. He set it on the table. His brothers weren't home yet. It was just him and the lasagna and the taste of her cooking still lingering in his mouth. He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. The quiet was over.