Page 52 of Micah

“That ought to help.”

The back door slams open.

Shit.

I turn.

Sloane steps through the back door carrying two bulging garbage bags, bumping it shut behind her with her hip before heading toward the dumpster.

She freezes halfway there.

Her eyes find me.

Then the open toolbox sitting beside her van.

Then the hood that's still propped open.

Then me again.

Confusion.

Suspicion.

Disbelief.

Every emotion flickers across her face in the span of about two heartbeats.

“Micah?”

Well...

Fuck.

This is awkward.

“What...” She blinks several times, looking between me and the open hood of her van. “Um... what are you doing by my van?”

I look down at the greasy shop rag still clutched in my hand.

Guess there's no point pretending I was birdwatching.

“You needed a new cabin filter, Princess.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Princess.

The nickname slips out again soft and low.

Automatic.

Like I've been calling her that inside my own head for months.

Hell.

Maybe I have.

Because she looks like one with her red hair and peaches and cream skin.