Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dozer

Once again, I watch my gorgeous new neighbor disappear from sight. I don’t understand why she’s willing to help me, but I’m not going to question it too closely. Not when I’m enjoying spending time with her. It’s a strange experience being on the receiving end of help without her expecting anything really in return. Sure, she mentioned something about asking for my help when she needs an extra pair of hands, but it’s not like she’s trying to get me to pull strings to get her a brand deal or demanding I take her out to a fancy restaurant where paparazzi are known to hang out so we can be photographed together.

Glancing down at my clothes, I think about changing again, but I shrug, deciding I don’t care that much. These aren’t bargain basement sweats, but they’re not designer athleisure like Jenny begged me for or like even a few of my teammates prefer to wear when they’re off the ice.

I’m a simple man with simple tastes. I like quality, but I don’t care that much about the name on the tag. If it fits, it’s comfortable, and it does what it needs to—makes me look good if I’m dressing up, keeps me warm in the cold, or keeps me cool in the heat—that’s what I care about.

I grew up shopping thrift stores and sales and playing in second hand gear because the costs of competing on travel teams and AAA hockey to get a chance at getting drafted to the Juniors meant Mom and Dad had to scrimp and save where we could. It was worth it to me, though. And the few times I complained about not having whatever cool thing everyone at school seemed to have, Dad would look me in the eye and ask, “Would you rather have that? Or would you rather go to the tournament next weekend? Because it’s one or the other, kiddo. We can’t afford both.”

A glance at Mom always confirmed he wasn’t bluffing, and eventually I just accepted that playing hockey at that level meant sacrificing elsewhere. I didn’t realize at the time how much my parents gave up to finance my dreams, but now, as an adult, I know not everyone gets the opportunities I did. Sure, we had to cut back in other areas. And Mom taught piano for extra money while Dad worked full time as a plumber, taking more emergency call outs than the other guys he worked with so he could make extra money.

So now I do my best to spoil them.

While I wait, I wander over to my car. Marissa said she’ll give me a jump, and then we’ll head to her garage.

I’m playing around on my phone—the latest in a string of silly games that I jump on and play until I get tired of them and then move to another. This one you send your little blue guys to take over the other towers on the board until you occupy them all, battling it out with red and green. It’s a little bit strategic, a little bit funny, and it does a good job of passing the time.

I’m so engrossed that I don’t even notice Marissa has returned and gotten her car until I hear her close the car door and say, “Ready?”

Nearly jumping from surprise, I quickly turn off my phone and slip it into my pocket. “Yup! Ready.”

She laughs, and I like the sound. It’s so natural and effervescent, low and throaty, not trying to be extra feminine or anything with a silly giggle. I’ve finally started to recognize that. Not without help, of course. It was Tina, Nick Abernathy’s wife, who sat me down when I was moping about breaking up with Jenny and explained how every woman I get involved with has the same list of red flags. “Maybe you should keep an eye out for those,” she’d said, patting my hand and leaving me stunned while she dealt with another of an endless stream of demands from her offspring.

Nick’s an involved dad, but with two munchkins, sometimes you need both parents on the ice to handle the opposing team.

Their house is nearly always chaotic, especially in contrast to the silence of my own place, but being there makes me feel like I’m part of something. Part of a family. I may be an only child, but we grew up near both my parents’ families, so free weekends, holidays, and summers were spent with boisterous aunts and uncles and cousins who I roamed around with like a pack of coyotes, causing mischief and running amok until we got sent to the park down the street to play basketball until dark.

Nick’s kids are still young, but the running and squealing and desire to use all adult men as jungle gyms makes me feel loved.

I should call my mom tomorrow. It’s too late tonight. But we haven’t talked in over a week. We’re due for a call.

This time, Marissa walks me through jumping the car. “We can’t have a pretty boy like you always relying on the kindness of strangers. Don’t you know that not all strangers are kind?” She flashes me a grin, her lips shining with a fresh coat of gloss. She might try to act like she’s good with being grungy with her I can change a car battery/working on cars is a fun pastime/look at me in my sweats attitude, but she can’t fool me. A fresh coat of lip gloss? At the very least, that’s to make herself feel more presentable in company.

“So you think I’m pretty, huh?” I ask, giving her a sly half smile.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “That’s what you took from that?”

My smile grows wider. “Of course. Was there something else I should’ve taken instead?”

That elicits another chuckle. “I’ll text you the address of my garage while we wait for your battery to charge. That way you don’t have to worry too much about following me if we get separated in traffic.”

Another quip about wanting to ride her ass is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in. I don’t know her well enough to know if she’d think it’s playful banter or that I’m being a gross creep. And even in my head, it sounds like something a gross creep would say to a woman he barely knows, so I keep that to myself. Because I might be a lot of things—a jock who barely graduated high school and an overly sentimental dumbass, for starters—my mom raised me to be a gentleman too.

“Sounds good,” I say instead, watching her tap on the screen of her phone with those ruby red talons. The more I get to know her, the more they seem like weapons rather than proof of a princess complex.

My phone vibrates in my pocket seconds later, and I pull it out to glance at the address. It’s not a street name I recognize, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.

She nods toward my truck. “Why don’t you turn it on. Then we’ll unhook and hit the road. The sooner we get going, the sooner we get done.”

“Oof.” I clutch my chest. “That eager to get rid of me, huh?”

Her responding chuckle warms me. She’s gorgeous and likes my sense of humor? God, why couldn’t I have found her before I swore off women?

“Sure,” she says, though her tone doesn’t sound very believable. “We’ll go with that.” And she flashes me a grin that would normally have me asking for her number. Except I already have it. And instead of asking her on a date, I asked her to help me fix my car. Which she is, but it’s not exactly the kind of wining and dining I’m used to offering.

For a reason. I’m taking a break. I need to figure out how to recognize when a woman’s only using me for my money. And just because Marissa doesn’t seem interested in my money, I get the distinct feeling she doesn’t realize that’s something she could find interesting about me. And that’s part of why she’s helping me out.

I could—and probably should—let her know that I’m not hard up for cash. That I could afford to pay a mechanic if she weren’t offering to help me.

But I worry she’d change her mind. And then I wouldn’t have this excuse to spend time with her. Because at this point, that’s a hundred percent what I’m doing. I should’ve thanked her for her offer and then gotten a recommendation from Nick and had my car towed to a garage. There’s zero reason for me to be learning to change my own battery, except that I want to spend time with her. As much as I can until this excuse runs out. Because I can’t ask her on a date. I’m not dating, after all. And this feels like a gray area, where it’s definitely not a date and more of a friendly hangout.

And someone like Marissa?

She doesn’t get asked for friendly hangouts from random dudes. No, when dudes ask her out, they want to take her on a date.

My car starts right up on the first try, and Marissa unhooks her jumper cables and gives a little wave before lowering both our hoods and hopping in her car. I put the address into my preferred GPS app but wait for her to pull out so I can follow her.

We arrive at her garage about twenty minutes later, and I pull into a parking spot next to hers. She rolls down her window and shouts something I can’t hear, so I lower the passenger window of my truck to hear her say, “Don’t turn off your car! I’m in number two-oh-five. Drive your car over there. You’ll be able to pull mostly in once I have it open.”

“Got it!” I wait while she climbs out of her car and locks it, tracking her progress with my eyes in the rearview mirror before backing out of the spot and following her as she disappears around a corner.

The garages are laid out neatly and logically, so it’s not hard to find her again even after losing sight of her, and I stop in front of the garage she said, waiting patiently for her to unlock and raise the door.

Inside, there’s a workbench along one wall, cabinet toolboxes next to it, an old looking car with the hood up and parts and towels neatly stacked beside it, waiting for her to come back and continue working on the car.

Like she said, there’s enough room for me to pull the front of my truck inside so my back end isn’t completely blocking the way for other cars to pass behind me.

Her smiling face appears in the passenger side window, then she opens the door. “Go ahead and turn it off then pop the hood for me.”

After doing as she says, I climb out of the cab and come around to stare blankly at the engine as though I know anything about what’s under the hood of my truck.

A giggle makes me look at her. Shaking her head, she holds up a hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you, but you look like a deer caught in the headlights. You really don’t know anything at all about cars?”

“My whole life has been all about hockey,” I answer slowly, still staring at the engine, looking for the battery. I find it, but there seems to be some stuff in the way. How much are we going to have to take apart to change the battery? “I never had the time to worry about car stuff. Wasn’t super interested, either.”

“Do you know how to change a tire?” She sounds equal parts curious and appalled.

Meeting her eyes, I arch an eyebrow. “Do you know how to skate?”

Her plump lips purse together and hitch to the side. “Fine. Point taken. We all have different interests and skill sets. Still, I’d argue that being able to change a tire and jump a car are basic life skills on par with cooking and doing laundry.” She shrugs. “Never been stranded on the side of the road and needed to ice skate my way out.”

That makes me laugh. “Point to you.”

Grinning, she gathers some tools and the new battery, laying everything out in easy reach before launching into an explanation of what we’re doing. She’s patient and makes the whole process easy to understand.

Once the old battery is out, she coaches me through seating the new one, making sure everything’s connected properly and fastening all the parts and pieces back in place.

“There,” she says, grinning at me, sounding satisfied with a day’s work. “Doesn’t it feel good to know you can change a battery yourself?”

I’m grinning too, and I have the nearly overpowering urge to wrap an arm around her back and pull her in for a kiss. She’s tall for a woman, though I still have a few inches on her, but I’d just have to bend my head to meet her lips with mine.

Blinking that thought away, I nod. “I’m not sure I could do it again without help, but yeah. Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” she tosses over her shoulder as she puts the tools away, setting the old battery in the back of my truck. “That should be taken to the city’s hazardous waste disposal site, wherever that is.”

“Okay. I’ll have to Google that. I really do appreciate all your help. Can I take you to dinner to repay you?”

Her smile dims, and she meets my eyes, hers narrowing as she examines my face. Humming softly, she shakes her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, okay?” I wasn’t expecting that, and I review everything about our interactions today to see if I did or said something that might’ve upset her. But I can’t come up with anything. Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “Well, um, if I can return the favor somehow, let me know, okay? I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You don’t have to—” she starts to protest, but I just give her a soft smile as I move for the driver’s side of my truck. Her protest dies on her lips. We both know she doesn’t want to spend more time with me.

“Thanks again for all your help,” I say as I climb into my truck. “Seriously. You have my number. Let me know when you need an extra pair of hands.” I nod at the car. “Or if you need help hanging pictures or moving something heavy.” I hold up a hand as though to forestall a protest from her, though she isn’t even moving right now, much less talking. “I know you probably won’t because you’ll feel weird about asking later, but don’t feel weird, okay? I want to pay you back.”

Her answering, “Okay,” is almost too soft to hear, but it’s enough. For now, at least.

And with that, I close the door, enjoy the way my truck starts up with no issues, back out of the garage, and head home.