Motorcycles, Attitude, and Attraction: a Fiery Scene from CrossOver

When Vaughn does a favor for his boss, he expects grease, busted wiring, and maybe a few bad attitude adjustments on motorcycles. What he doesn’t expect is dirt bike racer Gabby Johnston—sharp-tongued, fire-bright and completely unimpressed with him.

Gabby knows dirt bikes. She knows what she’s doing. And she’s damn sure not about to let some tattooed mechanic with a cocky smirk tell her otherwise.

From sharp words to heated glares, these two keep pushing each other’s buttons. But somewhere under the attitude and the arguments, something else is building—something neither of them wants to admit.

Two strong wills. One dirt track. Let the battle continue…

“Thought I’d take another crack at figuring out what’s wrong with the Kawi,” Vaughn said.

“We already know what’s wrong with it,” Gabby snapped, dark eyes flashing like she was itching for a fight.

“Yeah?” Vaughn said, the sarcasm slipping out before he could stop it. “Then I guess I can head back to work.”

Her mouth opened—he could practically see the words loading—but Archie’s phone rang.

“I gotta take this,” Archie said, already turning away. He shot Vaughn an apologetic look, then leveled his daughter with a warning stare. “Play nice.”

Gabby’s mouth flattened into an unhappy line. She jerked her head toward the far end of the truck. “It’s over here.”

Vaughn gave her a beat, then followed at an unhurried pace. She walked like someone braced for impact, all tension and forward motion.

Did this girl ever smile?

I want to make her smile.

The thought hit him out of nowhere. What the hell was that about?

She stopped beside the Kawasaki and waved a hand at it like it had personally offended her. “You put the wrong fuse in.”

“Like hell I did, sweetheart.”

Her head snapped up. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Got that right,” he muttered.

She wasn’t sweet. She was fire—sharp, bright and dangerous—and damn, it was sexy as hell on her.

“I thought you knew what you were doing,” she said.

Vaughn felt his temper rise, hot and fast. Who did this chick think she was?

He tried to rein it in the way Laz always did. Slow breath. Step back.

But he wasn’t Laz.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said tightly. “I’m here as a favor to Laz, who, as far as I know, is doing a favor for your dad. I don’t screw up fuses. Or wiring. Or anything else on a motorcycle. And I sure as hell don’t need to take a barrel of shit from you.”

Her expression cracked just for a second—but he saw it. Hurt flashed through her eyes before she looked away and dropped onto the truck’s bumper, shoulders slumping. She looked small all of a sudden. Wounded.

Ah, Christ. Please don’t cry.

He was terrible with crying women.

“Look.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Maybe instead of jumping down my throat, we could work together to figure this out.”

She drew in a shaky breath, then straightened. “Yeah. Okay.” She hesitated. “Where do you want to start?”

“Do you know tools?”

“Of course I know tools,” she snapped.

He lifted a brow. That chip on her shoulder could have its own zip code.

She ducked her head. “Sorry.”

Vaughn exhaled and pulled off his leather vest, draping it over the Harley’s seat. “Hand me a ten-millimeter.”

She passed it to him, and he crouched in front of the bike, popping the cover. He pulled the first fuse, already prepared to rule this theory out.

Instead—

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

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