And I do want to see him again. Cheddar looks up at me and I can almost swear he’s smiling. “All right. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna ask him out.” It’s not that it’s such a big step, but Caleb scarred me in ways I can only now feel showing themselves. But I’m taking my life back. And the first step is asking for what I want. Right now, I want Walker.
CHAPTERSIX
WALKER
Belle hasn’t answered my last text and I don’t want to be the guy who sits by and obsessively waits for a woman to reply to his phone message–even though I’m doing exactly that–so I grab the parts file from the shop and flip open the folder. The receipts are organized by date already so entering them into the spreadsheet is quick, almost mindless work, but I focus because one month I entered a carburetor purchase at eleven thousand dollars. The accountant I use–a guy who takes his numbers very seriously–wasn’t amused.
Pop used to hate this part of the business. That’s why he hired Louis Cartwright to manage the office. Louis was a schemer, always up to try the latest get-rich quick scheme. And when those inevitably failed as they always do, he started stealing from Pop. When Pop died nine years ago and I took over the business, it was on the brink of disaster thanks to Louis. Well, Louis and the fact that Pop trusted him so he didn’t pay attention.
I worked my ass off to get this place back on its feet so Pop’s dream would stay alive. I bled and sacrificed, ate more bags of Ramen noodles than any man should in his lifetime, paid back creditors, restocked all the parts we needed to keep on hand, earned back Pop’s reputation one car at a time, and now, I’m on my feet, busy, working like a fool to make sure Pop’s Automobile Repair thrives.
Unfortunately, there is a mound of paperwork I can’t get to when I’m working on the cars. And lately, I’ve been overrun with broken down engines, worn brakes, even faulty wiper blades. So, I’ve been ignoring paperwork, but it’s the end of the month now and the new accountant needs me to catch up.
By the time I glance up again, it’s nine, and I’ve been at work for thirteen hours now. I’m dirty. I’m tired. And I’m hungry. I glance at my phone–not because I’m expecting a text, but because I’m so pathetic I hope one’s there.
I smile because I can’t help myself.
BELLE: Sorry for leaving you on read. My friend stopped by.
At least I don’t have to worry that she’s been awaiting a reply from me.
WALKER: It’s fine. I’ve been working. Are you hungry?
It’s an impulse. I don’t want to eat alone. And I want to see her. Asking her to dinner is a win-win.
As I wait for a reply, I think back to that night at the bar, to the kiss that knocked my socks off and made my head spin. It should also be said that the kiss was potent enough that I, a grown man, just used the phraseknocked my socks off.It was a hell of a kiss and I can’t stop thinking about it.
I’m about to give up and order a pizza–her reply is slow–when my phone pings again.
BELLE: I could eat.
She’s a woman who makes me smile no matter what she does and that’s rare in my life.
I don’t need to pick the place. I just need to extract some very specific details from her. We can decide on the food together.
WALKER: I could pick you up and we could go out for a bite.
I don’t mean to be staring at my phone screen while I wait, watching the three little dots do the wave, but I am watching and waiting like her answer is the most important thing in my life. Right now, aside from the promise of dinner it’s going to bring, one way or the other, her answer might actually be the most important thing I’ve ever waited for.
BELLE: 141 Camelot Drive
An address.Heraddress. And I’m in.
WALKER: 45 minutes.
I need to shower off all the grime, just so she knows the grease under my nails washes out and that I clean up. I’m not one of those guys who puts a whole lot of thought into clothes because I don’t really need to. I have picked up women in my work clothes. But I want her to see I’m making an effort. I want Belle to know that I’m not taking for granted that she deserves a guy who gives a shit what he looks like.
BELLE: Ok.
I shove my ledger into the drawer, put the purchase orders into a file folder and the invoices that go along with them into another. It takes a couple minutes for to lockup, ten more to drive home and twenty to shower and get dressed. Tonight, it’s jeans and a t-shirt with a light jacket.
And then it’s out the door. I drive to the address she sent. Her house is a cute cottage style with a swoop on the front, a dormer window in the roof, and a cute little porch with white trim and blue siding. More admirable than the cozy style or upscale looks of the house is its location in an affluent part of town. People our age don’t generally live in this neighborhood.
I park the bike in front of her place and hang my helmet on the handlebars, make the walk to the front door. Hell, even the front walk, lined with purple and pink flowers on one side and red and white on the other, is cute, and goes well with the homey feel of the rest of the house. I can even picture her out here planting the flowers and the image makes me like her more even though it’s only my imagination. For all I know, she has a gardener doing the work for her, creating the ambiance.
The doorbell is one of those old style ding-dong bells, and I smile. This place is a lot bigger than it looks.
But nothing matters as much as she does when she swings the door open and smiles. Her hair is pulled back on top but hanging long down her back and her eyes are bright and big, greenish gray and smiling. She’s in jeans with rips at the knee and a low-cut t-shirt that makes my eyes glad they work. Makes my body glad, too. She’s a vision.
