Chapter 7

Sophie’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel as she pulled up to Gemma’s house, the engine sputtering just enough to sell the lie. She tugged at the hem of her shirt—threadbare cotton stretched tight over her small breasts—and glanced at Gemma through the rolled-down window. “You sure this won’t freak him out?”

Sophie’s car gave a final, dramatic shudder as she pulled into Gemma’s driveway, the engine coughing like an old man with a pack-a-day habit. “Okay, that’s ... actually not faked,” Sophie muttered, tapping the fuel gauge. Gemma leaned in through the passenger window, her grin widening as the scent of burning oil hit them both.

“Perfect,” Gemma said, popping the hood with a practiced flick of her wrist. Black smoke curled upward. “Dad’ll have to get hands-on now.” She wiped a smudge of grease from the dipstick onto her jeans—preemptive evidence.

The screen door slammed before Sophie could reply. Phil Fletcher emerged, wiping his hands on a rag already streaked with motor oil. His gaze flickered from the smoke to Sophie’s outfit—the shirt clinging just there, the trousers riding low—then snapped to Gemma, who was already spinning her story. “Sophie says it’s been making this weird noise for days, Dad. Like, a groaning sound?”

Sophie bit her lip to keep from laughing. Gemma had pitched her voice just wrong enough to sound innocent while threading the word groaning with intent.

Phil exhaled through his nose. He knew cars. He knew teenage girls. But the combination? Dangerous territory. “Pop the hood,” he muttered, bending over the engine block. His shirt rode up, exposing a strip of tanned lower back. Sophie’s breath hitched—not at the skin, but at the way Gemma’s eyes darkened, her fingers twitching like she wanted to trace that line of muscle herself.

“It’s just the fuel filter,” Phil announced after two seconds of inspection. He straightened, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Five-minute fix. But—” His gaze snagged on Sophie’s collarbone, where her shirt had slipped sideways. A flush crept up his neck. “You girls should, uh. Wait inside. It’s hot out here.”

Gemma nudged Sophie’s bare foot with her sneaker. Stage two: plausible deniability. “Actually,” Sophie chirped, “could you show me? I wanna learn!” She stepped closer—too close—her hip brushing the wing. Phil’s knuckles whitened around the spanner.

Inside the garage, the scent of gasoline and old leather wrapped around them. Phil worked fast, his shoulders flexing under thin fabric. Sophie leaned against the workbench, deliberately shifting her weight to make her arse jut out. Gemma, playing chaperone, pretended to examine a shelf of spark plugs.

Sophie’s fingers twitched against the greasy wing as Phil bent deeper into the engine bay, his forearms flexing with each turn of the spanner. Gemma nudged a stray bolt with her toe—clink—and it skittered across the concrete, drawing his attention. “Oops,” she breathed, all wide-eyed innocence. Sophie seized the moment to inch forward, the heat of the afternoon pressing her thin shirt against her back where sweat had started to gather.

Phil cleared his throat and straightened abruptly, nearly knocking into Sophie. His calloused palm landed steadying on her bare shoulder—warm, rough—and lingered half a second too long. “Fuel filter’s shot,” he said, voice gruff. He stepped back, wiping his hands again on that perpetually grease-streaked rag. “I’ve got a spare in the shop. Be right back.”

Gemma waited until the door clicked shut behind him before grabbing Sophie’s wrist. “Did you see how he looked at you?” she hissed, triumphant. Sophie chewed her bottom lip, replaying the way his gaze had dipped to her cleavage when she’d ‘accidentally’ dropped a socket spanner. “He’s trying so hard to be good,” Gemma added, grinning.

The moment Phil disappeared into the shop, Gemma grabbed Sophie’s arm and yanked her behind the tool rack. “Okay, now,” she whispered, fingers already working at the hem of Sophie’s shirt. “Untuck it more—yes, like that—and hike the trousers lower. He’s gonna lose it when he comes back.” Sophie obeyed, the waistband of her jeans now riding so low the dimples above her ass were visible. Gemma stepped back, nodding approvingly. “Perfect. Now stand by the workbench and bend over like you’re looking for something.”