Vince wouldn’t pry into that now since she hadn’t offered up more information, but he’d bring her back around to it, later.
In the meantime…
“Can I possibly entice you back into the water?” Vincent probed.
“Maybe.”
It was noncommittal, but Vincent had seen a small spark in Lace’s eyes that said if he worked at it just a little harder, he’d get her to agree.
“I take it you can’t always get back to Diver Downeast when they have a call-out,” she moved on, gesturing to his back seat again.
“Mostly I can,” he replied, letting her change the subject.
He shuffled a pair of swim fins aside and found the box he was looking for.
He snagged it up. “Living at my parents’ house and not having much else to do right now except work in Pop’s lumber mill, I can be at the dive shop in under fifteen minutes most days. I tend to carry my gear around for remotely located emergencies. That way I can head straight to whatever site where I’m needed.”
Lace took the box of wipes from his hands, and turning to him, perused his face.
“You’ll have to tell me about some of your rescues,” she said. “If you’re allowed.”
Vince chuckled. “We don’t have any confidential, nondisclosure agreements for our work. Not like in the Navy. So I’m more than open to giving you details on what I do.”
“Great.”
She then indicated his head. “You want to take off your wig before I mop up your face?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “And happily. This damned thing itches my head like mad.”
“I get that,” Lace agreed. “I hate wearing one.”
He yanked the offending hairpiece off and threw it on the seat behind him.
Funny. She wasn’t watching the tossed wig. Her eyes were on his hair.
Right. His normal, dark curls would be flat as hell, and probably looked like crap.
But what had she just said?
Duh.He was an idiot.
Of course,she knew all about itchy wigs. Despite the fact that her bare head was undoubtedly exquisite, out in public she probably had to opt for either that odd wrap she was currently sporting, a hat, or a wig. He asked for an explanation. “That’s right. You must have an intimate knowledge of wigs. But tell me. What do you have on your head right now?” he questioned.
“I’ll give you all the deets, but can I…?” She waved a wipe in front of his face, hesitantly.
“Sure. Go for it,” Vince said, closing his eyes.
Her hands were gentle as they began swiping away his colors, and Vincent recognized that she wasn’t hurrying. She was careful and methodical, and if Vince had to say, he’d think she was doing a slow-roll on purpose, enjoying the job.
Well, hell.So was he.
“I wear this neck warmer on my head like a scarf when I’m out in public,” she returned to his question. “Not when I’mworking, though, because it would be too precarious. I have to suffer with a real hat, due to the uncertain weather conditions,” she explained. “But I find that a hat, in general, doesn’t breathe, nor does a regular scarf. With those on my head, I actually sweat like a pig.” She gave him an apologetic shrug, which he waved off.
Lace continued. “This,” she patted her headwear, “is a neck warmer which I’ve modified for my own purposes. It’s open at the top, which means it self-vents, so I’m not at risk of drowning in my own…perspiration.”
She’d amended the word “sweat” but it was completely unnecessary. Vince got the picture, and commiserated.
He hoped she wouldn’t remain self-conscious around him; that she’d feel free to share whatever she wanted.