“Why don’t you sit down a minute?” Before she could respond, Ryder just pulled her down on his lap. When she tried to push away, he grinned at his brothers and tightened his hold. “Screws with her dignity.”

“My dignity remains unbowed. You’re sweaty.”

“It’s hot. Eat some fries.”

“I just had a yogurt, so—”

“Then you definitely need some fries.”

She knew full well he’d keep her pinned in his lap until she did. She plucked one out of his container. “There. Now—”

“Wash it down.” He picked up his glass, put it in her hand.

“Fine, fine.” She drank, put the glass down again.

“Ry was saying you could use more help,” Owen began.

Her back went stiff as a two-by-four. “Have there been complaints?”

“No, but—”

“Have I complained? No,” she answered for herself. “I know what I can handle and what I can’t. Keep that in mind,” she told Ryder, poking her elbow into his gut and pushing to her feet. “I need to get back to work.”

“You’ve got a big fucking mouth, Owen.”

“You just said she—”

“A big fucking mouth. There’s the steel.” He took his sandwich with him as he walked away.

“Definitely hooked,” Beckett observed.

“He’s the one who said she was overworked.”

“Yeah, ’cause he’s the one who’s hooked.”

HE SENT HER flowers. Ryder’s working theory had always been if a woman was pissed off, no matter the cause or the blame, a guy sent flowers. Mostly that smoothed things out again. Then he forgot it in the sweat and effort of work until he was locking up for the night and she walked over.

“The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ve only got a minute, which doesn’t mean I’m overworked. It means I’m working.”

Damn Owen, he thought. “Okay.”

“I don’t want you telling your family I can’t handle this job.”

“I didn’t.”

“If I need more help, I’ll talk to Justine. I can speak for myself.”

“Got it.”

A man could always hope that would cap that, but as he expected she—like most women—gnawed on it.

“Ryder, I appreciate your concern. It’s nice, and it’s unexpected. Sometimes there’s a lot of stress and pressure involved. I’m sure it’s the same with your work.”

“Can’t argue there.”

“You could probably use a vacation, a long weekend or something.”

He laughed at having his own words tossed at him. “Yeah, probably. The thing is, I’ve got the next two days off.”

“How much time will you spend in the shop, or working out next week’s plan of attack, or talking to your mother about this job?”

She had him there. “Some.”

D.A. waddled over, nudged his nose at her hand. “He thinks I’m mad at you. I’m not.”

“Good to know.”