An Accidental Gentleman (2 page)

“So you run a psychic business at your repair shop, too?” He nestled the sloping wood beneath the curves of the undamaged front passenger tire.

“Men all think alike.” Her casual cynicism floated above the grind of metal on metal. “No special powers needed.”

“Ouch. If I’d known I’d be answering for my entire gender this evening, I’d have called my mom to tell her I love her.” He sauntered around the front and jerked his thumb at the field beyond. “Got a shovel in your toolbox? I’ll get started digging my own grave.”

She spun the lug wrench in two hands, push-pull, her confident execution fucking hotter than a sauna in July. Damn yeah, she deserved her hands-on pride.

“Nah, you can skip the grave-digging. Just fling your body between me and any cars that come along.”

Shit, he’d have done that anyway. Odd, because he’d never been the overprotective-of-women alpha—and sure as hell not for one who so obviously didn’t require protection. A chunk of rubber hurtling past his window had reset his signals. Concussion and hallucination remained the likeliest answer. “Your wish is my command, Ms. Fix-it.”

He stood guard. Cranked the jack once she’d fussed the cylinder into place on a plank. Team-lowered the blown tire, minding his fingers around the exposed metal threads. They worked steadily, her issuing orders and him following. Been a while since he’d maintained strict discipline, and she sure as fuck didn’t resemble any of his commanders, but the rhythm crept over him slick as a second skin.

He planted one knee on the tarp and gripped the tread on the replacement. They lurched upward in sync, heaving the full-size spare onto the bolts. Leaning in, he inhaled sweet pineapple and salty feminine sweat, a pairing as perfect as the prime posting in Hawaii he’d chased and never landed.

She finger-tightened the nuts, spinning in a star pattern, and gave him the okay to release the jack. The final twists she claimed for herself. Little proprietary about her four-way wrench—or determined to bust his jeans with her hand-over-hand work and swaying tits as she locked the sucker down tight.

The wrench slipped off the last nut. She grunted and patted the sidewall. “That’ll do it.” With the metal tucked under her arm, she scooped up a rag that’d been the victim of too many washings.

“Solid job.” He grabbed the road tarp, shook off the dust, and started folding. Work wasn’t done until the tools had been inspected and stowed. “Nothing cements a bond faster than shared terror and a successful mission.”

Stuffing the gear back in the toolbox, she shot him a side-eye. “Yeah, that special connection between nameless strangers changing a tire on a dusty roadside’ll get you every time.”

“Brian Hendricks.” Kneeling side by side for twenty minutes and he hadn’t fucking introduced himself. Every smooth move he owned lay a hundred yards back with the rest of her shredded tire. “Sorry, I should’ve said that first.”

Blame the dark brown rims of her eyes holding in orange fire and her sexy, confident strut.

He handed off the tarp, heaved the mangled tire into the truck bed, and tossed her the chocks. “Let me take you out to make up for my bad manners.”

She dropped the lid on the storage bay. “No can do, Brian. I’m late to dinner.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He dogged her steps toward the cab. Not near enough women had the height to match him on equal footing. This one did. He dug for his phone. “What’s your number?”

Flinging open the driver door, she flat-palmed his chest. Her bicep flexed. “You were sweet to keep me company and play lookout while I changed the tire. I appreciate the help.”

She swung in with the handgrip and scooted her ass in the seat. With a reach through the open window, she dragged the door shut. “You’re a nice guy.”

Solid and warm, she patted his cheek. “But I don’t date.” The engine turned over as she withdrew. “I fuck.”

The big pickup lumbered forward, guided off the shoulder and onto the blacktop by those same sure hands. Her arm rested on the window frame, her freckles fading in the flash of sunlight off the silver toolboxes.

He stood in the road with a grime-streaked button-down and aching knees. She’d knocked him so far off his game he might as well have spun out in the ditch. Trudging back to his car, he spat a curse for his own stupidity.

He hadn’t even gotten her name.

* * * *

Babying the white whale’s substitute tire, Kit held the needle under forty. She dropped to twenty-five when she hit the concrete curves of their neighborhood. Rancher after rancher, copycat products of the seventies, distinguished themselves from one another by siding color and lawn décor.

The streetlights waited to do their duty, but no kids raced across lawns to sneak in extra fun before dusky judgment prompted moms to shout them home. The neighborhood had aged with her parents. With her.

Parked in front of the garage, she silenced the engine. Twenty-eight and yet to move out. She lived in the house with the uneven sidewalk where she’d tripped and chipped a baby tooth loose at four. Puttered in the garage where she’d first learned to rebuild a radio, kneeling on the workbench with Grandpa Jake looking over her shoulder. When the station had emerged from the plastic shell, she’d shrieked her seven-year-old heart out and Grandpa had hoisted her in a victory dance.

She hopped out beside the six-seater minivan they’d gotten used a dozen years back. The old sedan wouldn’t have fit four adults and two car seats. The minivan marked the dull gold legacy of one deadbeat coward. She slammed her door as the garage rattled up.

“Sounded like my girl was home.” Perched on a stool, Dad hunched over their latest garage sale find, a busted espresso machine. Fixed, the basic home brewing setup might bring a decent profit at the shop. Parts lay scattered across the table. “Late night. Trouble?”

“Tire blew.” She jerked her thumb toward the offender.

Dad laid aside a gasket and wiped his hands on his pants. “You all right?”

“Uh-huh. Good Samaritan stopped and gave me a hand.” More he’d stayed out of her way, but he’d lent her muscle and acted the charming gentleman.

Pleasant, sweet, and so not her type. Didn’t explain her goose-bump shivers at the thought of him. Brian. Hugging herself, she rubbed her upper arms.

“Tire’s shredded. Rim’s good. I’ve got the spare on.” They’d have to take the truck in to get checked anyway, replace the—

“We’ll have to take her to Tom.” He ambled past her and squatted by the back tire. “Get him to give her a look-see and pick up a replacement.”

As alike as peas in a pod, Mom always said. Tinkerers and problem-solvers. “I know, Dad.”

He patted the fender with the gentle care most reserved for children and beloved pets. “The old girl brought you home safe, though.” Standing, he cracked his back. Grandpa’s death last year had aged him more than hitting the big six-oh. “Go on inside with you.” He shooed her through the garage. “Your mother’s keeping a plate warm.”

She slipped into the house as he settled back at the workbench. The wall hook accepted her keys. The laundry closet welcomed her purple tank, so grubby that stripping the grime would demand a miracle. The lime one underneath would do for now. She scrubbed her hands at the sink in the half bath, her fingers sore and pinched and her palms red beneath the dirt. Burdened by more than a year’s worth of road salt and mud and nameless gunk, the tire had thoughtfully transferred its collection to her skin and under her nails.

Brian wouldn’t be so rough and dirty. Him in his office-guy dress shirt with his I’m-a-regular-Joe jeans, driving his older but still fancy Audi, asking for a date as if people whose hormones clicked needed to pretend to like each other for a few hours before the clothes came off. He’d be one of those tender nice guys sucking on her fingers and gazing at her with eyes green as new shoots in a flower bed.

As she shut off the water, giggles filtered through from the living room. Better than her nieces fighting. The Squabble Sisters’ screeches demanded high-quality ear protection or escape. So-called nice guys seduced women with their bullshit, and when they walked out they left behind babies who grew into bickering teens. The house had enough of those.

She dried her hands on a shaggy rose-petal towel Dad had picked up for Mom at a garage sale a dozen years ago. Sorry, Brian, but her fingers would stay unsucked. Shoes toed off on the rug, she sock-footed into the kitchen.

Wiping down the cheery Formica floral counters, Mom half-turned. The way the spots darkened her vision, a full-on stare would’ve meant less attention than a sidelong glance. “Hiya, sweetie. Did you lose track of time on one of your projects again?”

“Hey, Mom. Something like that.” She squeezed tight in a come-from-behind hug. Her height hadn’t come from Mom’s side of the family—her mother fit under her chin. Had since she’d hit eighth grade. “Thanks for holding dinner for me.”

Mom patted her hands and swiped at a stray smudge on an upper cabinet. The stenciled yellow flowers on the white cupboards matched the counters, scaled bigger. Hand-cut by Mom, hand-painted by Kit and Erin when they were small. “Mm-hmm. Your plate’s in the oven.”

“Erin working tonight?” Keeping up with her sister’s picker schedule at the warehouse took a color-coded calendar.

“She went in at four.” Mom hung the washrag over the faucet, neat and tidy. Dirty dishes wouldn’t dare linger in her sink. “Second shift this week.”

With an unevenly stitched potholder birthed in a middle-school home ec class, she pulled out her dinner and shut off the warmer. Meatloaf and mashed taters. “Are there any—”

A jar of dilly beans landed in her hand. “Last one until this year’s are ripe. You girls best make them stretch until August.”

“Sure, if Dad doesn’t find them.” She carried her loot to the table and dug in. A glass of iced tea appeared at her elbow, and she mumble-chewed her thanks. The granola bar had helped, but lunch lay eight hours past, and her stomach had started in with reminders three hours ago. She fingered the seam of the table leaf. Thirteen years ago, the extra board’s appearances had been limited to holidays and potlucks. Once Erin moved home and brought the girls with her, the leaf had taken up permanent residence.

If she’d accepted Brian’s invitation, she’d be dining somewhere else instead of her usual chair tonight.

Mom slipped into her seat in front of the sliding door to the backyard, keeping her company at the table because she’d never let one of her girls dine alone. She’d like Brian’s politeness. “Bring that nice boy over,” she’d say. “A hot supper will thank him for stopping to help my baby.”

His blond hair and trim body made judging his age tough. His smooth cheeks and peach-fuzzy arms lent him youth. The crow’s feet embracing his eyes marked him as more than a boy, though. His manners sure as fuck didn’t scream twenties. Older than her, but how much?

Half listening to her mother’s rundown of the day, she nodded and hmmed between bites. Brian intruded with silent persistence, more distracting than a macho jackass throwing attitude. If he’d called her “little lady” or taken the wrench from her and tried to change the tire himself with less skill, she’d have shut him down and sent him on his way. Instead, he’d complimented her mechanical skills and joked to entertain her. And paraded around with his tight ass, trotting to and fro on her orders.

Arms bared by his rolled-up shirtsleeves hinted at a balance of brawn and brains, the peak before sexy fell toward overbearing posturing. His spiky hair ruffled on top as the wind directed, but the front tendrils flowed down his forehead and the tips promised curls if he delayed a haircut. Brian was a real guy, not a badass punk.

Exactly why dating him would be a train wreck. He’d make her life messy. Entangled, connected, and longer than one night. Ditching assholes came easy. They didn’t give a shit why she refused to bring them home or insisted on fucking in the parking lot. They cared about two priorities—when and where they could stick their dicks.

She’d be an unfair bitch to lead on nice-guy Brian when he should be looking for a settle-down girl. He didn’t behave like a fuck-and-run, and she didn’t do long-term investments. And if he was faking like all so-called nice guys, he’d get bored and walk away once she’d gotten hooked.

Mr. Frog-in-His-Throat. A real Prince Charming. The minute she kissed him, the world would drive her toward fairy-tale princess dreams she’d shunned since childhood. Her happily ever after came with a mess of metal and wires under a work light, not a white gown and a gold ring under the eyes of God.

* * * *

Gravel crunching under his tires, Brian pulled up to the farmhouse and parked alongside Rob’s pickup and the SUV they’d gotten to replace Nora’s beater. Fuck takeout. He’d run his ass off cramming best-man duties in the narrow window between Christmas and New Year’s. A bachelor deserved to dine off that apology at least through summer grilling season. After Labor Day would be soon enough to call them square.

He took the porch steps in one leap. Rob understood women. He’d landed Nora despite the awful introduction Lucas would never live down. And Nora, she’d know why his nameless Amazon had rejected him. She’d decipher woman-code, he’d track down said woman, and the date would be on.

The unlatched screen door invited him on inside. He poked his head ’round the corner toward the kitchen as the screen snapped shut. After eight. They might’ve eaten or be out back finishing up.

“Hey, Sherwood, Maid Marian, what’re you serving tonight?” he yelled toward the stairs as he patrolled the empty first floor. The dining room sported actual furniture instead of Rob’s piles of someday projects. Living with a woman changed a man. “I come bearing no gifts.”

“Brian, I swear to—” Rob’s deep bark cut off, and the peal of Nora’s laughter followed. “If you’re staying for dinner, grab a beer and go the fuck outside for at least fifteen minutes.”

He slumped over the banister and howled his laughter. Heading into month six and they still went at it like newlywed rabbits. “You’re only giving her—”

“Make it thirty.” Nora shouted louder than her husband. Bedsprings creaked.

He sucked back the laughs to get words out. “You two trying for a baby up there?”