When she’s gone, John gives me a sly grin, a sharp glimmer in his eyes.
“What?” I ask warily. “You did double-check her tires, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he says. “But I didn’t use the Tire Flex 3000 or the Tirenator 4000. Mostly because neither of those actually exist.”
I let out a startled snort. “John!” I say, half-reproachfully. “That’s terrible.”
“What? You told me to be more polite to people.”
“I didn’t tell you tolieto them.”
“And how was that any different than you and that rich girl the other day, exactly?”
“I—well—”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, what?”
The corner of my mouth twists up. “I suppose it’s better than your usual approach to customer service.”
He grins. “Thanks. Now you have to try my way.”
“What, be rude to people for no reason?”
“Not for no reason,” he says. “But the next time someone’s a jerk, you’re not allowed to smile and be polite to them.” He sticks out his hand. “Deal?”
“I suppose,” I say grudgingly, shaking his hand. His grip is warm and strong, and there are callouses on his fingers. I let go very quickly and clear my throat. “I should get back to work.”
“Right.” He pushes himself off the counter. “Are you doing your old-people job tonight? ’Cause Trey and I were thinking we’d finish up the exhibit.”
“I do mycaregivingjob every night,” I say. “But I can come by afterward.”
“Sounds good,” he says, then heads off to the garage. I turn back to my desk, biting down on a tiny grin. Then I shake my head at myself.
“Get a grip, Emily,” I say firmly.
The rest of the day passes by pretty uneventfully, except for this one time when I pop back to the garage to bring the phone to Dave and accidentally witness John using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his face, revealing a very impressive set of abs. After work, I pop over to Mrs. Finnamore’s to see if she needs anything, and also to dig into the situation with her late husband a little more. I think that’s what I need right now: a cold, cautionary tale on the dangers of settling for the wrong man.
“I was at Jim’s house last weekend,” I tell her, while she makes us a pot of tea. “His wife’s birthday would have been this week.”
“Poor Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says. “That must be hard.”
I nod, and then ask casually, as though it’s just occurred to me, “When was your husband’s birthday?”
“March,” Mrs. Finnamore says, rummaging through her cupboards. “When you go to the store next, can you get some more of those wafer biscuits? The ones with the vanilla filling. The chocolate ones are too rich.”
“Er—sure,” I say distractedly.
“I like the lemon ones too. They’re not too tart. Most lemon biscuits are much too tart.”
“Vanilla or lemon,” I repeat. “Got it.” Then I clear my throat and try again. “Do you get a little down when his birthday comes around?”
“When whose birthday comes around?” she asks, pouring us both a cup of tea.
“Your husband’s.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says vaguely.
I hesitate, then decide to dive in. “It’s just that the other day, when you were talking about him, it seemed like—I don’t know, like maybe you two weren’t always perfectly happy all the time?”
