“What are you doing?”
“Knitting,” he replied drolly, not bothering to look away from the engine. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
It looked like he was messing with my (already thoroughly messed-up) engine.
I sighed. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
He grunted noncommittally in response. A lock of his thick, dark hair fell over his brow as he fiddled with the steaming crap-heap I called a car. Each time he moved, the muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his button-down shirt in a way that was so unconsciously attractive, I forced my eyes to the sidewalk until he finished doing… whatever it was he was doing under there.
“Well?” I asked the pavement once his shoes stepped back into view. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
There was a distinct pause — after which, he reached into his pocket, retrieved his cellphone, and proceeded to make a phone call.
“Puck? Yeah. It’s Cade Hightower. How the hell are you, buddy?” He paused briefly to listen. When he spoke again, his voice had warmed a few degrees. “That’s great news. Long time coming, too. I’m thrilled for the two of you.” Another pause. “Listen, the reason I’m calling…” His eyes found mine again. “A friend of mine is in a bit of a jam.”
My brows soared upward.
Friend? I mouthed.
He winked. “Her car — liberal use of the term — broke down. I gave it a once-over, but this is beyond my capabilities. More miles on this thing than on Forrest Gump’s sneakers. Radiator looks totally shot, the water pump has seen better days. God only knows what else. Can you send one of your guys around tomorrow morning, tow it into the shop for a look? See if it’s salvageable or better off in the scrap heap?” He listened for a long moment. “Yeah. Full run-down. Thanks, bud. I appreciate you making the time. I’ll text you the address in a few. Mhm. You too.” He hung up, slid the phone back into his pocket, and announced, “The car’s handled.”
I was still processing his rather alarming description of my vehicle. “Better off in the scrap heap?”
He shrugged.
“Thescrap heap?!” I repeated, voice pitching up an octave.
“Look, Puck could probably get this shitbox souped-up and ready for the Indy 500 if you gave him enough time. But there’s no point throwing good money after bad. He’ll be straight with you about what’s wrong and whether the repairs are worth it. That’s why I called him.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask for it, but you needed it all the same.”
“That simple?”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he nodded as he stepped toward me, closing some of the distance between us again. “Yeah. That simple. Like I said before — basic human dignity.”
“Did you grow up Amish or something?”
One dark brow arched. “Excuse me?”
“It’s just… in my experience, people don’t treat one another with your so called—” In the narrow span between our bodies, I did finger quotes. “—basic human dignity—” My hands dropped down to plant on my hips. “—all that often. In fact, most of the time, people do the exact opposite.”
He digested this information in silence for a long stretch. A small indent appeared in the space between his eyebrows as they furrowed together. “I’m sorry.”
I started, surprised by the out-of-left-field apology. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because, clearly, wherever you were before this… whoever you were with before this… you weren’t treated very well, if your first instinct when meeting someone new is to assume you’re about to be screwed over.”
Okay, now, that wasit.
I was officially ticked the hell off. Where did this guy — this totalstranger— get the nerve, saying something like that to me? He didn’t know the first thing about me. He didn’t know where I came from, who I was, what I’d done. I could be a terrible person, so far as he knew, and he was treating us like long lost pals.
My teeth ground together. “Listen, Hero-Hair?—”
“Hero-Hair?” he echoed, amusement evident.
“Oh, don’t sound so shocked. You’ve got that perfect, Clark Kent messy-but-somehow-perfectly-styled hair going on. Those little distinguished streaks of silver at the temples that say, ‘Of course you can trust me. I’m one of the good guys.’’’ I eyed the offending hair in question with ill-concealed disgust. “It’s hero-hair, dude. And I see right through it.”