“All right,” I relent. “Pop the hood for me and bring your phone as a flashlight.”
A couple minutes of rummaging around under the pitifully short beam that her reach allowed and it’s confirmed. The diagnosis isn’t good, and it’s out of my wheelhouse, at least on the side of the road.
A flat tire, I would’ve been your guy. Some extra coolant, or your belt slipped off, coulda been me. This? This is looking a lot more like something major, but I don’t wanna be the one to give herthatnews.
I wipe my hands off as best I can on my pants, and she runs back inside to grab a hand towel for me and offers that instead. After getting as much off of my forearms and hands as seems possible without hot water and special soap, I let out a heavy sigh.
“Before we go any further, I feel like I’ve already been to second base, maybe third, with Van Gogh, and I still don’t know what to call you. Call me old-fashioned, but where I come from, we learn a girl’s name before we go elbow-deep under her hood.”
The somber tension cracks, and she lets out a little laugh.
“Weston Grady, are you too proper to go any further without a meal or at least a movie?”
“All I need’s a name, darlin’.” Give her a little wink, and it’s pretty dark out right now, but I think I see a flush in those cheeks of hers.
“A—” her eyes flash over my shoulder and I wonder if this is where her boyfriend clubs me over the head. I turn to check, but the coast is clear. Only Van Gogh is watching us. “Amelia.”
“All right, Amelia. Not gonna lie to you. It’s not something I can fix right here. She needs a professional.”
Amelia’s head drops back, and she lets out a little wail that’s too comical to be truly pathetic.
“Just fucking perfect,” she says. “My phone has no service, I’m in the middle of nowhere, and now I’m stuck.”
“Hey now,” I tell her. “You’re not alone out here. I can call a tow truck.”
Her eyes gleam softly at that. “Could you?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m not just gonna leave you out here. They’d revoke my country boy chivalry card. And my phone has service, so there’s a little bit of luck.”
“Ugh.” She drops her head back again, short hair swaying as she does. “Thank you. You’re a lot nicer than most people I’ve met.”
“Hey, don’t get any ideas now. I need that mac’n’cheese for the rugrats. This isn’t philanthropic. It’s transactional.”
A tiny smirk pops out on that captivating face of hers, and she gives me a grateful smile. There’s something soft about her looks, her energy, but there’s sharpness there too. The mix intrigues me.
“Right,” she says. “You get me a tow truck, and I’ll make sure your nine kids get their mac’n’cheese.”
“I’m down to seven, remember?” I correct her.
She nods solemnly. “That’s right. The auction.”
“Lucky for you, and my seven remaining kids, I know a guy who can help you. Let me get ahold of him.”
She nods and puts her hands behind her, resting on her hips in a way that makes her arms stick out to the side as she watches, and waits.
The phone rings, and rings, and rings.
“This is Wyatt. Don’t leave a message.”
I smile at Amelia, then turn around and glare at my phone.
“Don’t do this to me now, you prick,” I whisper, and then redial.
The same message greets my ears.
I call his wife, who answers on the second ring. “Hey West! You get into the house okay? Did the code work?”
“Actually, I need Wyatt. I ran across someone stranded on the road, their Sprinter van broke down. I can’t get ahold of him.”
