His gaze dips. “You’ve got a stain on your pants.” I take a jump back with a gasp, the muscles in my neck spasming from how quickly I look down to assess the white linen material. “Where?” He effectively slips through the gap and starts tinkering around underneath my hood. I never allow my stare to linger on him, but today I’m taken aback by his nearness. Laurence—or should I say Lorenzo—once told me he liked cars, but I didn’t know he could repair them.
