He stepped onto the concrete path leading to the house, the hot cement nearly blistered the soles of his feet. He did not jump like a cat with a cucumber as his feet demanded; instead he kept his cool and guided Darla to the grass before she could step onto the heated surface as well.
Together, but not together, they walked on the grass. He stepped on the thick, green blades and the spongy sensation seeped between his toes.
Darla moved quickly, efficiently, beside him. Then she stalled. Stopped, totally.
"Okay." She turned, and with her arms full of clothes and shoes, she inhaled a huge breath. "I’m going to do it." She nodded. "I’m going to do the show."
Was the nod for him or for her? He wasn’t entirely certain.
"Then let’s go talk to Courtney and get settled on the solution." He strode quickly toward the house.
Darla kept pace with him.
"I’m trusting you," she said, and it sounded like both an announcement and an accusation.
He could live with either of those. They were the same thing, right?
He pulled his bottom lip with his teeth because there was no getting around the fact that she said it, but he hadn’t earned it.
Yet.
The thing was, shecouldtrust him with this. He’d let her down once with the date. It wasn’t intentional, but it’d happened.
It wouldn’t happen again.
"Mach?" she asked.
"Yup?"
"If we’re going to be meeting with your publicist… where can I put on my pants?" She pursed her lips, and fuck all, he was a goner.
Chapter Ten
DARLA
Somewhere between Mach’shouse and the grocery store, Darla got screwed.
As in, there was a screw lodged in her tire.
Unlocking the door to the car, Darla slid the canvas bags of groceries onto the passenger seat. She’d only stopped in at King Soopers to grab a couple of things.
When her mom and dad still lived in Denver, she would always call her dad for help with stuff like this. So, even though he wasn’t close, and couldn’treallyhelp, making the call came naturally.
"It’s hissing, Dad," Darla said into her cell as she stared at her flattening by-the-second tire. Thesssssound of sadness was actually a decent metaphor for her day.
"Best bet is gonna be roadside assistance," problem-solver Dad announced. "They’ll be there in a jiff."
Mach was right, Darla was entirely too predictable. Playing it way too safe in her decision-making recently. Maybe it was time for that to change. She could take this opportunity to prove to herself she could do something, anything—even fix a flat tire—to take back some of the control in her life.
"You know what? I can do it." And by do it? She meant she would switch out the damn tire herself.
"Make sure they don’t send those guys from Colfax. I don’t trust ‘em," Dad muttered, his attention clearly split now between the golf game on the television and Darla. "Try to get the garage over on South Broadway. They’re good guys. Fix you right up. You sure you don’t want me to call ‘em?"
"I got it," she assured him. "I’m gonna change it myself."
"Have you ever changed a tire?" Dad asked, now a little more interested in the conversation.
"It can’t be that hard," she assured.
