“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”
His features cracked with an involuntary smile. Then he took six steps forward, walking me backward until I was against the wall. Though he was invading my space, he didn’t touch me. I had to lift my chin to keep administering the dirty look I’d adopted.
“Jessica,” he whispered, his gaze sweeping over my face like he was attempting to memorize this dirty look I was giving him. “My priority is making sure all your dreams come true. You can trust me on that.”
“But can I trust you not to push me into a lake while I’m in my Sunday best? Or switch out my travel magazines with Urology journals?”
He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on my nose, but as he retreated he said, “No.”
“No?”
“No. If I get a chance to push you into a lake, I’m probably going to take it, especially if you’re wearing that dress.” His eyes flickered down just briefly, then back to mine.
I huffed, felt my dirty look transform into a disappointed frown. “See now, I’ve been working under the assumption you liked me.”
Duane’s sly smile returned and his eyes heated; I recognized this look, it was his I’ve got plans look. “I do like you, Jessica. See now, that dress is white. And if it got wet, it wouldn’t matter if you left it on or took it off.”
I kept my eyes narrowed, though I felt my own involuntary smile tug at the corner of my lips. A lovely spreading warmth moved from my chest to my stomach to my thighs. I remembered the solemn promise I’d made to myself during church, not to fling my heart or my panties in his direction, to be circumspect and mindful.
He was making it very hard to keep my solemn promises, let alone be mindful.
Nevertheless, and even though I was starting to feel that uncontrollable, desperate, building sense of urgency, I managed to squeak out, “I’d like some privacy while I change, please.”
The light behind Duane’s eyes wavered, like I’d said something to confuse him. “You want some privacy?”
I nodded.
“Really?” He took a step back.
I nodded again.
His smile was gone and in its place was a thoughtful—verging on concerned—frown; he examined me for a bit longer then said, “You can trust me, Jess. You know that, right?”
“I know. And I do—”
“Good.”
“—to an extent.”
He smile-scowled at my use of his earlier words, then shook his head like I was a nut. “Fine, I’ll meet you downstairs, Princess. We’ll be changing a tire first.”
I gave him two thumbs up. “Sounds good, Red.”
His scowl deepened, but so did his smile as he turned toward the door and yanked it open. I heard him mutter as he left, “Maybe after we can go find a lake.”
***
We changed four tires. The shop had one of those high-powered thingamadoodles, yet he insisted we do it the old fashioned way—with a carjack and a tire iron.
Next, he showed me how to check the oil and various car fluids, remarking on the differences between several makes and models, like the fact old VW Bugs’ engines were air-cooled and didn’t have radiators. I was having fun, mostly because watching Duane in his element was fun.
I realized Duane Winston loved cars. He loved how they worked, how each car was different, nuanced, a puzzle to be solved. And he told me more stories about nutty customers that made me laugh even though I couldn’t quite follow them. One was about a man whose air filter was sucked into the throttle body, and another described a customer who added eight quarts of oil to his four-cylinder engine because the dipstick looked dry, except at the tip.
Some of the terms he used—like throttle body—made me press my lips together, avert my eyes from his big hands, and fight a blush. I’d never realized before, but automotive speak was ripe with inadvertent sexual innuendos, like manifold couplings, dipstick, and lube.
Or maybe I just had a dirty mind.
Or maybe it was just Duane. Perhaps his mere presence did things to my throttle body.
Or maybe some combination of the three.
Whatever the issue, I was feeling hot under the collar of my oversized coveralls and had to unzip them to my chest, surreptitiously fanning myself after he’d used the phrases drive shaft and push rod in the same sentence. While I fanned myself, I walked over to a stereo sitting on a well-lit table. Small, greasy machine parts covered the surface of the table, making me think the car part was either being disassembled or reassembled.
I switched on the stereo to CD mode and pressed play, curious to see what had been playing last. To my astonishment, the cool harmonic melodies of The Beach Boys filled the air.
I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane watching me with not quite a smile, though his eyes were glittery.