Page 6 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“He didn’t bother me.”

That’s a lie, but not for the reason she thinks.

“I was going to call a repair shop after the children left,” she says.

“I own a repair shop.”

Her smile grows slightly. “I know.”

“Then you were going to call the wrong one?”

A small crease forms between her brows. Then she laughs. It’s quiet and warm, nothing like the woman’s laugh over the phone.

“I suppose I was,” she says.

I take the box from her arms. It’s lighter than I expect, filled with laminated papers, plastic bins, and a stuffed rabbit wearing a miniature graduation cap.

“What happened to the car?”

“The light came on about halfway here, and it started…” She gestures uncertainly. “Wobbling?”

“Shaking?”

“Yes.”

“Did it lose power?”

“A little. I think.”

“Any smoke?”

“No.”

“Strange smells?”

She bites her bottom lip as she thinks. “Something smelled hot.”

“Oil.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s not good.”

Her face falls. I should offer reassurance. I deal with panicked customers every day, and I know the speech by heart. I’ll take a look. It might be minor. Don’t worry until we know. Instead, I find myself studying her.

There are faint shadows beneath her eyes, partially hidden by makeup. Her smile doesn’t quite reach them. A thin silver chain circles her neck, and Carter’s engagement ring sparkles on her left hand. She catches me looking at it and folds her fingers into her palm.

“How long did you drive after the light came on?” I ask.

“Five minutes, maybe. The school was close, and I didn’t want to pull over with all the traffic.”

“You should have.”

“I know.”

“If the oil pressure drops, five minutes can ruin an engine.”

“I’m sorry.”