“Great.”
“Fantastic.”
I swipe my hand across my forehead, checking for sweat as if I just had the equivalent of a gym workout. “Then we’ll meet again tomorrow.”
His gaze cools. “I’ll be there.”
I flash him the stink eye. “Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late, Parks & Rec Princess.” He leaves without another word.
Rolling my eyes in his wake, I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. Fighting with Patton Cross is like running uphill in the snow. Possible, but deeply unpleasant and extremely tiring.
6
WINNIE
After closingout the tabs on my computer and shutting it down, I grab my coat and bag, determined to escape before any other unexpected visitors pop in.
The parking lot is nearly empty when I reach my car. Tipping my head back against the seat, I take a deep breath before going home to deal with the leaking pipe. I turn the key.
Nothing.
I try again.
Click. Click. Nothing.
“No, no, no.” I pump the gas pedal and turn the key again. The engine makes a pathetic wheezing sound and dies.
Good. Great. Fantastic.
Except it’s not.
Bundled up in full winter gear, I overheat from exasperation. Needing fresh air, I kick open the door and then pull out my phone to call Grandma, but I’ve convinced her not to drive anymore due to her eyesight. I can’t possibly ask her to come out, even though technically she’s still a licensed driver. Mindy is already gone. Thomas and Pauline, too.
I could call a tow truck, but that will require money I don’thave. I drop my head back onto the headrest and gaze at the car’s ceiling, where the thin fabric has come unglued and bubbles like a sad canopy.
“The battery is dead,” says a deep, male voice from nearby.
Startling in my seat, I jump and turn. Patton stands next to his truck in just a t-shirt, holding jumper cables.
Flustered, I huff. “I don’t need?—”
“Pop the hood.”
“You don’t have to do?—”
“Hood. Now.”
I pull the lever by my knee.
He works in silence, connecting the cables with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. His hands are steady despite the scraped knuckles, and I notice a scar along his left forearm—old, faded, probably from his job.
“Try it now,” he says.
I turn the key. The engine sputters, then catches.
“Helping me like this seems very off-brand for you as a person, but thank you,” I say, infusing my voice with sincerity.
