The Closer. Rhonda Nelson

of the car “—Clem needs a break.”

      Monica swallowed, clearly touched and torn, then briefly looked away. “Jess, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know how I’d pa—”

      “We’ll work that out later,” she said, waving her concern away. “Maybe trade it out in manicures?” She grinned ruefully and held up her hands. “These nails are always in need of help.”

      A tentative smile peeked around her lips. “Are you sure? I—”

      Jess nodded decisively. “I’m sure. I’ll give you a call when your car’s ready, okay?”

      “Thanks, Jess,” Monica said, her eyes soft with sincerity. “I really appreciate this.”

      Jess knew she did. That’s why she didn’t mind helping her. “You’re welcome.”

      Looking relieved and a little excited, Monica waved as she drove away.

      Jess heaved a small sigh, then turned to find Griff staring at her, an inscrutable look on his handsome face. It was unnerving. “I know, I know,” she said, plucking her snack bag from his hand as she started for his truck. “We need to go. We’re on a schedule.”

      And for perverse reasons she wasn’t certain she understood, she had every intention of wrecking it as often as possible. Because something told her that Griff Wicklow needed to learn to roll with the punches instead of holding too fast to his agenda.

      It had to be exhausting.

      4

      GRIFF DIDN’T KNOW precisely when he’d become so jaded, but it was rare that anyone ever surprised him. Truly, genuinely surprised him. He’d taken one look at Jessalyn Rossi and, while every cell in his body had seemed to misfire and short out, he’d still thought he’d had her pegged. Pretty, creative, more than a little reckless.

      Interesting? Definitely.

      Hot? Without question.

      A potential problem? Oh, hell, yes.

      But watching her hand her keys over to the young woman at the gas station—keys to what was obviously a prized possession—and then offer to fix her car in exchange for manicures? That... He inwardly reeled.

      That was something else.

      Not to mention learning that she raced stock cars—and was missing a race this weekend to make the trip for her father—and knew her way around an engine well enough to know that the leak was coming from the valve cover gasket and not the drain plug or the filter. He knew his way around one, too. He’d worked part-time at a garage while in high school. He mentally grimaced. He’d worked lots of part-time jobs while in high school.

      At any rate, Jessalyn Rossi wasn’t just surprising—she was a revelation. One that he found as intriguing as irritating. He smothered a snort, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while she carelessly popped chips into her mouth and thumbed through a magazine. Every once in a while he’d catch a smile or a moue of distaste—she had the most interesting face—and it was a continual struggle not to stare at her, not to ask her the cause of each reaction. When, by all rights, he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t give six damns or a bloody hell. She was merely an accessory to the job at hand, a necessary inconvenience, a premature pain in the ass.

      And yet...

      An undeniably singular thrum of excitement vibrated through him, a bizarre sense of expectation tightened low in his belly—along with all the usual parts, of course—and it was with as much dread as anticipation that he admitted to himself that she was quite possibly the most fascinating woman he’d ever met.

      He didn’t have the time nor the inclination to be fascinated, Griff thought darkly. He had enough problems as it was—an image of his half brother Justin’s hopeful smile surfaced at the thought, making him instantly uncomfortable—without throwing an inappropriate attraction into the mix.

      They’d been on the road for the better part of an hour and he’d made up the extra six minutes she’d cost them at the store by needling the speedometer a little farther to the right. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the window, backlighting her dark hair in a sepia-toned halo—a crooked one at that, which seemed strangely appropriate given what he’d observed during their brief acquaintance—and illuminated the side of her face, revealing delicate bone structure and a frankly sensual mouth. Because he didn’t need to be thinking about her hot mouth and the things she could do to him with it, Griff decided a conversation was in order.

      “That was nice,” he said, his voice a bit rusty.

      She looked up, a puzzled line appearing between her sleek brows. “What?”

      “Loaning your car to the girl at the station.”

      Her expression cleared. “Oh, that,” she said, as though she’d already forgotten the kindness. “Thanks. I thought she could use a little good luck.” She frowned significantly. “She’s certainly had enough of the other kind, poor thing.”

      “Oh?”

      Jess casually flipped another page. “Her husband walked out a couple years ago. Left her with a set of twins and an infant. Conner and Cash were barely out of diapers, and Ava wasn’t even a month old.” Her face hardened. “Selfish bastard.”

      Selfish bastard, indeed, Griff thought, his anger spiking. He had enough experience with fathers who walked out to know what sort of hardship Monica and her children were going through. Jesus. Deciding not to be a husband was one thing—being a father wasn’t friggin’ optional.

      Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

      He cleared his throat, hoping to dislodge the choking irritation building there. “I’d like to help out on the repairs for her car,” he said.

      She stilled and those pale gray eyes swung toward him. He’d clearly surprised her, a feat that he imagined was difficult to do. She looked away, back to her magazine. “That’s not necessary. It’s just the gasket. It’s not an expensive fix.”

      Maybe not for the parts, but what about her time? Which begged another question—who taught her how to work on cars? He’d be willing to bet it hadn’t been her father. The older Rossi seemed more interested in his jewels and gems than spark plugs and cables. An old boyfriend, perhaps? he wondered, irrational annoyance making his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

      “Be that as it may, I’d still like to help. At the very least, pay for your time.”

      She looked at him again, her focus more deliberate. “Why? You don’t know Monica.”

      He smiled. “Do I have to know her to want to help her?”

      She hesitated, studied him, evidently looking for some form of motive behind the offer. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose you don’t.” She paused. “Thank you. I’m sure Monica will appreciate it.”

      “I imagine that’s why you offered to help her in the first place,” he said. She didn’t strike him as the type to waste her time on ungrateful people.

      Him, neither, for that matter, which had made giving his half brother, Justin, the kidney a little easier. He wouldn’t have refused, of course—how could he when the boy had been handed a certain death sentence?—but knowing that Justin understood the sacrifice and appreciated the gift had made things much easier.

      Or as easy as it was going to get, at any rate.

      He could have happily gone the rest of his life without hearing from his father—he’d made it the past seventeen years, after all—and, though he’d known about Justin and had been periodically curious about the other boy his father had raised, Griff wouldn’t have ever sought him out. It was too painful, for him, admittedly, but more so for his mother and sister.

      Glory had been too small when their father had walked out to truly remember him, and Griff had always made sure to fill