I should’ve walked away.
Instead, I tilted my head. “You enjoy insulting strangers?”
“You enjoy ordering people around?”
I met his eyes. “Only when they need it.”
He didn’t flinch. “You don’t scare me, princess.”
I didn’t know whether to slap him or hire him.
I settled for folding my arms. “What’s your name?”
He tilted his head, like he was trying to decide if I was serious or just playing some kind of game. The corners of his mouth curved again, not quite a smile. Amused. Pitying.
“You really want to know?” he asked.
I blinked. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“I think you would have,” he said easily. “Some people ask questions just to feel in charge of the conversation. Not because they care about the answer.”
I stared at him. “Wow. That’s deep for someone who wipes grease on his pants.”
“Like I said,” he murmured, “some people don’t want the answer.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Another pause. Then: “Charlie.”
“Just Charlie?”
“Works for now.”
“Well,just Charlie, go back to your toolbox. I’ll wait for someone competent.”
He stepped back and nodded, mock-serious. “Yes, ma’am.”
I turned away, fuming. The nerve.
Who was this guy? Probably a glorified luggage handler who thought being handy with a wrench made him interesting. Probably told women he raced dirt bikes and lived in a trailer by choice.
My phone buzzed. Foster. Finally.
“Where are you?” I snapped.
“Miss Carrington, I deeply apologize. I had a … situation. The traffic?—”
“I don’t care. Just get here. Now.”
I hung up and turned—to find Charlie watching me from a few feet away, leaning against that sad excuse for a truck like he was posing for a blue-collar centerfold.
“You know,” he said, “if you’re this charming sober, I’d hate to see you at brunch once you get a few mimosas in you.”
“Do you always eavesdrop on people’s conversations?”
“Only when they’re yelling loud enough to drown out jet engines.”
I narrowed my eyes and turned away, pretending he didn’t exist.
