“You know about cars?”
“A little.”
“Let me guess,” she says, her voice sounding only slightly petulant. “You were a mechanic in Timbuctoo.”
I chuckle, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck. “Not quite, but I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years. Come on,” I encourage again. “Pop the hood.”
She does, and I lean over the engine to take a look.
“Okay,” I call to her. “Can you try to start it again?”
She does, but the engine still refuses to turn over, making a clicking noise. It’s not an unfamiliar one, and almost immediately, I think I know what the problem is. Backing up a few steps, I ask her to turn on her headlights. She does, and I check them to see if they’ve dimmed, but they look fine.
“What does that tell you?” she asks, and I’m surprised to see she’s exited the car and come to stand beside me.
“That it’s probably not your battery.”
“Oh.”
“You got a lug wrench?” I ask.
“Um. Maybe?”
“Can you pop the trunk now?”
She watches me for a long moment, then does as I’ve asked. Moving around the back of the car, I lean in to find her trunk packed full of stuff. Boxes filled with blankets, two half-empty bottles of washer fluid, a roll of paper towels. Some old, muddy running shoes, a gym bag, a football, several water bottles, and other unidentifiable detritus with a handful of protein barsscattered throughout. She steps up beside me again, and I turn to her in surprise. She’s always been so neat and tidy. Or shewas.
“I have two teenagers,” she explains.
I grunt.
“If you’re trying to get to the spare tire—”
“Never mind,” I mutter. It’ll take forever to move all of this stuff to access the tire kit beneath. “I have a wrench in my truck,” I add, calling over my shoulder as I trot back across the street.
Returning with the tool, I move back to the front of the car and wave for Steph to climb into the driver’s seat once more. “Turn the key again and hold it in the start position,” I instruct her. Then I tap several times with the metal tool on the starter in the hopes it’ll jostle the contacts to connect. Luckily, it does, and the engine roars to life.
Steph shouts in surprise, and I smirk, unlatching the prop rod and slamming the hood closed. I push on it to make sure it latches properly and cast my gaze up to meet hers through the windshield. She’s smiling at me.
Sixteen.
“It’s your starter,” I tell her, moving around the hood to the driver’s side where she’s still seated with the door open.
“Is that going to be expensive?” Her voice is laced with concern, and I hate to think of her struggling for money.
“Depends. A large part of the cost is the labor, but the placement of this one means it’s not actually that difficult.” I shrug. “I could do it for you.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. Thanks, though, but you’ve done enough. I’ll have Joe take a look in the morning.”
Joe?
Who the fuck is Joe?
A wave of possessiveness rises, swift and white hot, nearly choking me with its intensity.
“Um … my mechanic?” Steph says, but it comes out like a question. She stares up at me, her expression completely taken aback.
Shit, I absolutely did not mean to say that out loud.
