Her smile flattens. “Yes. I remember from last night.”
She heads to the fridge and starts pulling out sandwich fixings while I slouch back down, channeling sulky boredom as best as I can. But damn, this IPA is really good. I lift the label to check it out, and Clint raises his in salute.
“Moody Tongue. Made in Chicago.”
“Dad loves it,” Darby says. “Maybe we could hit the brewery sometime.”
She swipes my bottle from me to steal a drink before handing it back. I almost fumble it when she chases a stray drop at the corner of her mouth with her tongue.
“I’d love that,” I manage, raising the bottle to my lips so they’re pressed where hers were moments ago. I haven’t known a moment of peace since she brought up the question of kissing yesterday, but given how freaked out she looked about the whole thing, this secondhand contact might be the closest I get while we’re here.
“That’s quite a truck,” Clint says. His tone is friendly, but it’s clear to everyone in the kitchen that he hates it. It definitely makes me stop thinking about his daughter’s mouth.
“Thanks.” I take another sip. “Someday I’ll restore it properly. It’s a ’95 Ford F-Series.”
Interest sparks in his eyes. “Is it? A ’95 you say?”
“Oh boy, here we go,” Margaret mutters, and she and Darby both roll their eyes.
Darby senses my confusion and explains, “Dad loves classic cars, especially the newer classics. You’re going to have to let him poke around under the hood now.”
Clint shrugs his agreement. “I didn’t recognize the body shape what with the…”
I grimace. “Yeah, the mismatched door’s the first thing anybody really sees.” I pat my pockets and pull out the keys. “Shall we?”
Before we leave the kitchen, Margaret calls, “Lunch in twenty!”
Clint ushers me out the front door, and the brittle brown grass crunches our feet as we head to the curb. He gives a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
I pat the hood. “I use her for work, but she’s in no worse condition than the day I got her.”
He circles the truck body, peeking into the back. “What is it that you do?”
Can you provide for my daughter, in other words. Darby’s words came back to me:My mother will hate that. But what about her father?
“I’m a landscaper. I’m opening my own business next year, and part of the branding will be a complete overhaul.” I run my thumb over one of the dings in her side panel. “I want her to be a good ad for the business, logo and all.”
“Smart. May I?” He gestures at the hood, and I open the cab and pull the release. Once it’s up, we contemplate her innards in silence. Clint eyeballs the fluid levels and taps the dipstick with his finger, although he stops short of pulling it out to check it. It’s such a dad move that I have to smile.
“Got someone for insurance? Business, I mean.” He’s bent all the way over the engine now, poking at my spark plugs and jiggling some wires. I hope I’ll be able to drive it home.
“I was planning to talk to my home and auto guy.” I hesitate because this isn’t what Darby would want, but I ask it anyway. “Darby says you’re in insurance. Do you recommend anyone in Beaucoeur?”
His head pops out from under the hood like a groundhog. “I can give you a couple of names. And I can also tell you a few of the questions you’ll want to be asking to see if they’re what you’re looking for. If you want the advice, that is.” He crosses his arms and waits.
This is a test, and even though I’m supposed to fail it—tell him to go to hell, tell him I make my own way—I actually want his advice.
Fuck it. I’ll double up on shitty behavior at dinner tonight. Right now, I want this man’s thoughts on starting a business.
“I do, if you’re willing to share.”
“Anything for my baby girl,” he says. Then he unleashes a torrent of “be sure to ask this” and “you’re going to want to do that” suggestions that have me scrambling for one of the glove box notebooks that I take with me to job sites.
As we head inside for lunch, he promises to get me in touch with one of his trusted guys in the Beaucoeur area, and we’re exchanging phone numbers when we walk into the kitchen to wash the car grime off our hands.
While her dad’s at the sink, Darby shoots me aWhat the hell, man?look, and I shrug apologetically. Mission failure. I’ll do better starting now.
“Perfect timing,” Margaret chirps after I trade places with Clint, scrubbing the grease off my hands with candy cane-scented soap. She sets a platter of sandwiches in the middle of the island alongside a bowl of pasta salad. The scent of hot butter and toasty cheese makes me salivate. And Margaret actually did slice the crusts off of half the sandwiches. I’m oddly touched.
