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As I often pushed my luck and stepped away from him, growing tired of his car talk with the few people he chose to speak to, I felt his gaze follow my every move, even while he was immersed in conversation. And I realized one thing: I might not be the only woman in his life, but I would be the only one he called wife. The revelation was a vigorous thrum in my chest. So consuming a hum I couldn’t force myself to feel anything but a deep-seated contentment.
“Nicolas,” I said a few moments later, covering my eyes from the sun as I glanced across the lot. “It’s just like your Gran Torino.”
Nico stopped by my side but was busy sending a text. I’d yet to see this man drunk when I’d assumed he was an alcoholic. However, I was always seeing him work. I was beginning to think workaholic was a more likely diagnosis.
“How do you know what model my car is?” he asked without looking up.
“I have a superior knowledge in all things cars.” I smiled, because I didn’t even know how to freakin’ drive.
He glanced at me, amusement ghosting across whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sure you do.” Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he looked across the lot. “That’s a ‘70. Mine’s a ‘72.”
I paused. That was awfully perceptive of him, having been too far away to read the paper in the windshield. “How do you know?”
“Wild guess,” he drawled.
Hmm . . .
“What year is that red one?” I pointed to the next Gran Torino in line.
He gave the car a glance. “‘71.” And then a smile pulled on a corner of his lips. “It was the movie, wasn’t it? How you know?”
I frowned.
That was the fourth time I heard him laugh. I didn’t know when I’d started counting, but now I wondered if I would ever stop.
I soon learned it wasn’t a “wild guess” as he’d said. In fact, with some more questioning, I realized he could tell me the make, model, and year of all these cars here with a simple look. He was like a car encyclopedia, though humble enough not to admit it.
I watched him, was fascinated in a way by the few words that he spoke, and I took a mental image when he glanced my way and the sunlight hit him just right. Pierced with that dark, acquisitive gaze of his, something warm started in my chest, and as the day went on it spread further through my being until it was so interwoven I’d never get it out.
“How do you know so much about cars?” I asked him as we walked side-by-side. The sun was a sweltering weight against my skin, and I pulled my ponytail off the back of my sticky neck.
“Kept me out of trouble,” was all he said.
I imagined he meant when he was a teenager. What kind of trouble did a young Nico get into?
Guilt felt heavy in my chest when I recalled what I’d insinuated about his mamma last night. My parents were far from the best, but I’d been safe, loved, and cared for as a child. I wondered who’d loved Nico. I bet his papà had shown him about as much affection as mine did Tony, which was worrisome. And I doubted an addict for a mamma could be very caring and supportive.
“Nico,” I said, then hesitated. I wanted to ask him so much. I wanted to know everything, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me. So, I settled with: “I’m thirsty.”
“Ah, so it’s Nico when you want something,” he drawled, amused. “Come on. Let’s get you something to drink.”
I’d never seen my papà leave the house in anything less than a two-piece suit. Yet here this man was in boots, jeans, and a white t-shirt. He still didn’t fit in with the crowd. It was like everyone knew he had a gun tucked somewhere under his shirt. Or maybe they could see the Cosa Nostra in his eyes.
We sat at a picnic table near the edge of the lot with a bottle of water. Nico finished his in two drinks and then rested his elbows on his knees and watched the crowd. After the driveby I’d experienced not even a week ago, maybe I should be worried about my wellbeing. But the truth was, I didn’t think there was another person in this world who could make me feel safer.
When his gaze settled on my face, I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. But after a
moment with a sputtering pulse, I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Why are you staring at me?”
One heartbeat. Two.
His voice was rough and his gaze was steady when he said, “Maybe I want to.”
Something soft and warm wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
We stopped in front of the Gran Torinos, and mischief flamed to life in my chest. I strayed to the next car over, examining it like I knew what I was examining. And knowing he owned a ‘72, I announced, “I think I like the ‘70 the best.”