I waited for more instructions, but none followed.
“Any tips would be appreciated.”
“I bet if you put that fancy private school education of yours to work, you could figure it out.”
“You’d think,” I mumbled, not loud enough for him to hear, and returned to the task at hand. I pulled up on the nozzle lever. Still no gas. I walked back to the pump, searching for a button or switch. As much as I didn’t want to look back over, I did. Iron Maiden was done filling his own tank and was now leaning against the back bumper of his ‘70s two-toned truck, his feet crossed at the ankles as he observed me with a relaxed satisfaction.
“I thought you had big plans for the evening,” I called over.
“I do.” He popped a Red Vine in his mouth. “They can wait.”
“Well, you might be here all night, then, because I have no idea how to get the gas flowing.”
“You know, I might’ve been more helpful had you not hurt my feelings by comparing me to Bon Jovi. That was some bogus bullshit.”
The grin on his face told me this guy was not easily offended. In fact, if I was reading him correctly, he was finding this whole scene wildly entertaining.
“You don’t strike me as the sensitive type,” I replied.
“And you don’t strike me as incapable,” he shot back.
Our eyes caught, sparking twin smiles. It occurred to me then that he was more attractive than I’d initially given him credit for. His face was open and unguarded, lips marked by salt and too many afternoons in the surf. His dark hair fell wherever it wanted, permanently windblown, and his smile carried the careless confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether things would work out—only when.
“About that apology, Gold Coast. When should I be expecting it?”
“Yes, the apology. I was getting to that,” I said, clasping my hands together as if in prayer. “Dear heavy metal guy. Please forgive me for mistaking you for a gas station attendant. It was insensitive of me to stereotype you based solely on your demonic t-shirt and unruly hair.”
He grinned. “Go on.”
“And I’m really sorry for calling you Bon Jovi. Back home, that’s not considered an insult. Now, will you pretty please—with devil horns on top—help me get the gas out of the pump and into my car? I’m sort of in the middle of fleeing from an arranged marriage, and I’d really like to get back to that.”
He pushed off his dented Chevy and took a few steps forward. “What do you mean? Like a mail-order bride?”
“Worse. My parents are forcing me on a date with Donald Lavelle the Third.”
“Well, shit. Does he come with his own butler, or do you have to provide one?”
“Wait. It gets worse. He goes by the nickname Prince.”
“Prince? Such a loser. What, was King already taken?”
I laughed, caught off guard by his quick wit. “You’re right. He is a loser. I’ve known Prince since we were kids. One time, when we were like ten, our families were vacationing together in theMarquesas, and I caught him stashing a booger up the nose of a centuries-old tiki statue.”
“Was a couch not readily available?”
I stopped my story to eyeball him. “I don’t get it.”
“Wiping boogers on the side of the couch? Never mind. Go on.”
“I… that was the story.”
“Oh. Okay,” he said. “Good one.”
I stared at him, momentarily lost, and in that pause Iron Maiden closed the gap between us, approaching with such scraggly coolness that he set my pulse in motion.
“Red Vine?” He offered up his licorice choice.
“No, thank you. I’m a Twizzlers girl.”
