In Love With Him

Chapter 11

Kennedy’s POV

I woke up with a tight knot in my stomach and heat crawling up my neck.

God, I actually said it.

To Dominic, of all people.

The memory replayed in my head like a broken record. The way I told him I’d never had a real kiss. The way his laughter had stung, even if he had apologized afterward. Even if his voice softened. Even if he sat on my bed and tried to be… sweet.

It didn’t matter.

The damage was done. And now he probably knew.

If I’ve never kissed anyone before, then it wouldn’t take a genius like him to put the rest together.

He probably thinks I’m pathetic.

I groaned and rolled over in bed, burying my face into the pillow.

I had to get up.

I had to move. Breathe. Do something.

I peeled myself off the sheets and crept toward the bathroom door like a spy on a stealth mission. Pressed my ear against it.

Silence.

I waited a second longer, just to be sure. Then I turned the handle as quietly as possible and slipped inside.

The bathroom was empty.

Good. Thank God.

I rushed through my morning routine—washed my face, brushed my teeth, braided my hair into a messy side braid, and changed into an old black tank top and grease-stained jean shorts. I didn’t even care what I looked like. I wasn’t planning on seeing anyone.

Especially not him.

By 6:40, I was out the door.

I skipped breakfast—just grabbed an apple from the counter, ignoring the weird look dad gave me from the kitchen—and headed straight to the garage.

I needed sanity. And my car was the only place I ever really found it.

The garage smelled like oil and steel and rubber. Familiar. Comforting.

The '62 Corvette Stingray gleamed under the low light, its curvy frame still in progress. I ran my hand along the smooth, cool metal like it was a living thing. She wasn’t finished yet, but she was close.

A few more tweaks, some tuning, new paint and polish—she’d be purring in no time.

Unlike me.

I set my apple on the small work table and popped the hood, tying my hair up tighter. The moment I reached for my wrench, the stress started to melt from my shoulders.

This—this—I could handle.

Pistons. Bolts. Timing belts. Compression ratios.

Not… complicated, gorgeous, cocky stepbrothers who climbed into your head and made your heart race like an out-of-control drag car.

I shoved that thought away.

No. No thinking about him today.

I had way too much to get done.

So I worked. I tightened things. Checked spark plugs. Adjusted the air-fuel mixture. Crawled under the car and wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, already feeling the sticky Florida heat even this early.

My brain slowly settled.

Here, I didn’t feel awkward. I didn’t feel small.

Here, I wasn’t some weirdo outcast virgin who overshared to the hottest guy she’s ever been near.

I was just… Kennedy.

And Kennedy could build a damn car from the ground up with her bare hands.

Screw what he thinks.

I wiped a grease smudge off my cheek and reached for another tool.

The moment I heard the upstairs floor creak through the garage ceiling, I froze.

He was awake.

Of course he’s awake now.

I shook my head and shoved my arms deeper into the engine, determined to drown out everything else.

Especially thoughts of what Dominic must be thinking about me now.

I didn’t realize how long I’d been working until a voice startled me from under the hood.

“That’s a beautiful car,” Helen said.

I jerked upright and wiped sweat from my forehead with the inside of my wrist. She was standing in the garage doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, wearing jeans and a breezy blouse—looking more like a cool aunt than the detective she actually was.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

Helen smiled, taking a cautious step inside like she was trying not to intrude too much. “Is that a '62 Stingray?”

I tilted my head slightly. “Yeah. Bought it with my own money from a salvage yard. Barely a frame when I got it.”

Helen looked genuinely impressed. “And you’ve done all the work yourself?”

I hesitated for a second. Then nodded. “Every bolt.”

She walked over slowly, keeping a respectful distance. “Dominic did the same thing with his Camaro. Completely rebuilt it. He’s proud of it—but don’t tell him I said that or his ego might explode. Maybe he can help you fix it.”

At the mention of his name, something fluttered low in my stomach—and I hated it.

I looked down quickly and busied myself with wiping grease off my hands.

“School starts next week, right?” she said after a beat. “I was thinking... maybe you and I could go shopping? Get you some clothes, maybe a new pair of boots or something. Do something fun. Just us girls.”

I glanced up at her, surprised.

She noticed and rushed to clarify. “Only if you want. I figured it might be nice to get out of the house. You’re surrounded by testosterone here—between Paul, Max, and Dominic—I thought you could use a little... break from all that.”

She gave me a sheepish shrug. “I never had a daughter. Just raised two boys. They never wanted to go shopping with me. Or talk about eyeliner. Or boots.”

Her voice was kind. Not forced. Not pushy. Just... hopeful.

I opened my mouth, closed it again, then sighed. I could still hear Dad’s words in my head from a few nights ago.

She’s not trying to replace your mother. She just wants to be your friend.

“I guess I could use a break,” I muttered. “Let me clean up first.”

Helen’s face lit up like I’d handed her the moon. “Take your time.”

I gave her a small nod and watched her leave, her footsteps echoing as she walked through the doorway.

After a second, I looked back at my car.

Then at my grease-streaked arms and tank top.

Shopping. Girl stuff. Me.

God help us both.

After Helen left, I headed upstairs and peeled off my garage clothes. My tank top was streaked in oil, and there was grease smudged on my neck and under one eye. I caught my reflection in the mirror and rolled my eyes.

Hot.

I jumped in the shower and scrubbed until my skin felt like it belonged to a human again. I didn’t bother doing much with my hair—just brushed through the long black waves and tossed it into a loose half-up bun. It was too hot to care, and Helen didn’t strike me as the “pageant queen” type anyway even though she did look like one.

I threw on a black fitted T-shirt and a pair of black shorts—simple, casual. The shirt hugged me in all the right places, and the shorts weren’t short-short, but they showed off enough leg to make me pause in front of the mirror and consider changing... before deciding screw it. It’s ninety degrees. I’m not melting for modesty.

As I reached for my boots, something caught my attention.

A thudding sound from outside. Steady. Rhythmic.

I stepped toward the window and parted the curtain.

And instantly regretted it.

Dominic was in the backyard. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a pair of loose black workout shorts and MMA gloves. He was hitting a training dummy with ruthless precision, sweat dripping down his chest and back, muscles flexing with every jab and kick. His skin glistened in the sun, and every part of his body looked like it had been carved out of stone.

My throat went dry.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

The way his back muscles rippled... the sharp V of his hips disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts... the controlled power behind every strike...

I exhaled without realizing I’d been holding my breath.

God, what is wrong with me?

I felt my face flush. My thighs clenched involuntarily, and my stomach coiled with a need I didn’t understand, let alone want.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to have those arms wrapped around me. How easily he could pin me. How warm his skin would be. How firm. How—

I snapped the curtain shut like it had personally offended me.

And then stood there, heart hammering in my chest, breath shaky, mouth dry.

I need help.