“You’re right, it wouldn’t. Do you think your brother cares about that?”
Morgan runs his hand down his face. “Fuck. Okay. Fuck.”
I laugh, giddy with the idea of owning this beast. Also, catching Morgan off guard is hilarious. He’s usually so confident and in control, but now he’s flustered, which means the tables have turned. I think about how I felt when he was half naked and dancing up against me, and this kind of revenge is pretty sweet.
“Stop it,” Morgan chides, and that throws a bucket of cold water over me.
I press my lips tight.
He continues, “Okay, look, I’ll gladly sell it to you for whatever you want. How are you going to get it home?”
Oh, right. I consider this problem. “Can I leave it here for a few days?”
“Yeah sure.” He pauses and eyes the Bronco cautiously. “My brother might figure all this out.”
“Do you think he might try to steal it back?”
Morgan shakes his head. “I don’t know.” His head falls back to look up at the sky. The daylight is just starting to fade. “Why don’t we put it in my garage for now?”
First, Morgan lets Princess out into the backyard, and I reach over the chain-link fence to give her a head pat. Then Morgan opens the garage door manually. It isn’t hoarding-level full, but there are boxes and lawn equipment and things for Princess.
“I guess I’ll put cleaning this place on my project list,” Morgan says. “For now, let’s just see how much of it we can move to the side.”
I start moving boxes, and Morgan picks up loose things and piles them on a table in the back. I hear a faint buzzing sound, and Morgan pats his pocket. He pulls out his phone, checks the screen, and then ignores the call.
“So, how did you know about the Bronco, uh . . .”
“Roadster.”
“Yeah, that one.”
“I’ve always been into cars. And bikes, too.”
Morgan looks out the garage door at my motorcycle. “I’ve always wondered if you had another ride.”
“I do. A Honda Civic.”
He stops, a pair of pliers in his hand. “A souped-up Civic?”
I roll my eyes. “No, I’m more into classics. My Civic is factory standard.”
“Do you work with cars? Like for your job? Since I don’t know what you do,” he teases.
I still haven’t told Morgan what I do. It used to be because I didn’t want to bother making a friend just to lose them when Grandma moves again. And then it was just fun to see the kind of guesses he could come up with.
In general, I don’t often tell guys what I do. I get a variety of responses that usually all boil down to men not being able to handle a woman in a “man’s job.” Same with rebuilding cars.
But now . . .
“I work in robotics.”
He straightens. “No shit, really?”
“Yeah. I work as a service technician for a firm in Boston. I handle most of the lower New England area, fixing things when shit breaks or helping set up new systems.”
Morgan whistles. “A smart technician and a car aficionado.” His gaze is warm, looking at me like I can take on the world, and my heart kicks hard. A man who likes a woman’s competence is hot. “How’s your grandma like all that?”
I smile down at the box in my arms as I move it to the back. “She bought me my first car when I was fourteen.” I set the box on top of another one and pause, thinking about that car. “A Jaguar E-Type. Even worse off than this one.” I lift my chin to the Bronco. “Took me eight years to rebuild it. When I sold it I tried to give her the money and she told me to ‘accept the damn gift.’ I’ve been looking for another project ever since.”