One of them was big and heavy; it had slid forward a few feet, probably when she’d braked to make the Treatsy-Sweetsy parking lot entrance. So she pushed up the sleeves of her canary-yellow shirt, then stretched forward to reach the box. A couple of catcalls came her way as her faded blue jeans tightened across her rear end. But she knew they were good natured, so she simply ignored them.

She dragged the box toward her, over the gritty, metal floor.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” a deep, melodious voice rumbled in her ear.

“I can manage,” she responded crisply, not wanting to engage with any of the cat-callers.

Here in the garage, the last thing she needed was one of the guys treating her like she was something other than, well, one of the guys.

She’d learned long ago that there was something about her that made men toss out pickup lines like parade candy. And she’d been around race teams long enough to know she needed to behave like a buddy, not a potential date.

She piled the smaller boxes on top of the large one.

“It looks heavy,” said the voice.

“I’m tough,” she assured him as she scooped the pile into her arms.

He didn’t move away, so she turned her head to subject him to a back off stare. But she found herself staring into a compelling pair of green…no, brown…no, hazel eyes. She did a double take, as they seemed to twinkle, multicolored, under the garage lights.

The man insistently held out his hands for the boxes. There was a dignity in his tone, and little crinkles around his eyes that hinted at wisdom. There wasn’t a single sign of flirtation in his expression, but Crystal was still cautious.

“You know I’m being paid to move this, right?” she asked him.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be a gentleman.”