Page 9 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

“I’m a mechanic. I’m always judging cars.”

She pops the trunk and I set the box inside. When I straighten up, she’s close. Closer than the courtyard, closer than the workbench. The evening is warm and the light is going golden and soft around the edges. Her eyes are brown. I hadn’t noticed that before. Light brown, almost amber in this light.

I notice it now.

“Thank you,” she says. “For the bike. For the upgrade you didn’t have to do.”

“Already said it was practical.”

“And I already said it can be both.”

She’s looking at me the way she looked at me in the shop, when I told her ski instruction was a skill and not a vacation. Like I’ve given her something she’s been waiting for. The problem is that she’s giving me the same thing back, and I don’t know where to put it.

People call me when things break. That’s my role in this town. Beck, the guy you call. Beck, who can fix it. Nobody shows up at my shop to talk about transistors they researched on their lunch break. Nobody stands in a parking lot looking at me like I’m something other than a service they need.

“Callie.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Any of this. Carry boxes. Stand in parking lots. Talk.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job for someone who doesn’t do it.”

My jaw tightens. She sees it. I watch her eyes track the movement, watch them drop to my mouth for half a second before coming back up. She doesn’t try to hide it. That’s the thing about her. She doesn’t hide anything. Every thought, every feeling, every reaction plays across her face in real time, and it’s the most disarming thing I’ve ever encountered.

“I looked up ski certifications too,” I say.

Her eyebrows go up. “You did?”

“PSIA Level Two requires a minimum of a hundred hours of teaching. You’ll need to log hours at the resort this winter.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. My mouth is doing things my brain hasn’t approved. “The Copper Peak ski school runs a mentorship program. Applications open in October.”

Her lips part. “How do you know that?”

“I know people at the resort. I maintain their grooming machines in the off-season.”

“Beck Meyer. Did you research my career path?”

“I looked up one thing.”

“You looked up multiple things. You just cited a hundred-hour minimum and an application deadline.”

I’m in trouble. I can feel it, the ground shifting under me, the careful structure of my quiet, uncomplicated life tilting sideways. I fix things. That’s what I do. I don’t look up certification requirements for women I’ve known for three days. I don’t carry their boxes to their cars. I don’t stand in gravel parking lots watching the light turn their eyes to amber.

But here I am, and she’s looking at me like nobody has ever looked at me, like I’m something worth seeing and not just something useful, and I can’t make myself walk away.

“Thank you,” she says. Quieter now. The bright, bubbly exterior is still there, but underneath it is something steadier. Something real. “Nobody’s ever done that for me.”

“Done what?”

“Taken it seriously. Taken me seriously.”

The distance between us has gotten smaller. I don’t remember moving. She’s right there, close enough that I can see the faint sunburn across her nose. Close enough that when she tilts her chin up, her mouth is right there too.

“Callie?”