Yet, in that moment, I didn’t care. I was much more interested in her reaction to his intentions than making life easy for Cletus.
It’s not like I’m going to besmirch his character, I reasoned. I’m just going to spill his beans.
And so I said, “It means, he’s fond of you. A lot. And he intends to . . . court you.”
I watched her for a reaction, like a hawk.
She lifted her chin, her eyes clouding with understanding as she absorbed my words, but all she said was, “Oh.”
My mouth tugged downward and I searched her eyes, looking for something, anything that would give me a clue as to what she was thinking. Was this good news? Or bad? Was she adverse to the idea? Or what?
Shelly revealed nothing, staring at me from behind her glacial fortress. My stomach pitched, then dropped, and I rubbed a hand over my face.
Forcing a determined smile, I plowed ahead. “So how about you and I start over?”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“We’ll be working together, for who knows how long, so we might as well make an effort to be civil.”
“Civil?”
“Yeah.”
“Be more specific.”
“Fine. Friends.”
She flinched and her gaze sharpened. “Is that what you want?”
No. Not really. “Yes. Of course.”
A tempest gathered in her eyes and her expression turned severe. “I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Excuse me?”
“You aren’t excused.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I mean, what? Why wouldn’t you want to be friends?”
“It’s not what I want.” Her voice rose to a near shout. Shelly was full-on glaring at me now, and I got the sense my suggestion of being friends troubled her on a fundamental level.
“Then what do you want?” I asked gently, which only seemed to infuriate her further.
For the record, that was not my intention. I was trying to make peace, and in doing so, give myself some peace of mind. Somehow, Miss Shelly Sullivan and her black lace underwear, and her tank top with no bra, and her eyes that looked into my soul, had invaded my thoughts, filled my mind and hijacked my dreams with impossible possibilities.
It needed to stop, and not just because of my brother’s intentions. She was all alone here. She was in therapy for heaven’s sake. All signs pointed to off limits.
So when she yelled, “I want—” she lifted her hands like she was going to grab my arms, and I braced myself for her touch.
Instead, she balled them into fists and spat, “I want you to leave me alone.”
I rocked back on my heels, not masking my surprise at the venom in her tone. She was angry, that much was obvious. As to why, I had no clue.
“Okay, fine.” I nodded once, grinding my teeth.
“I want you to reset the auto lift when you’re finished using it. I am tired of cleaning up your messes.”
Well. Okay then.
“Fine.” I took a step back.
“And, how you sing along with music while you have headphones on? Stop doing that.”
“Anything else?” I taunted. “Any more demands, your Regal Majesticness?” This woman brought out the worst in me.
Her glare grew furious and she shoved her face in mine. “You often speak in even-numbered word sentences.” The statement flew out of her mouth, and she made it sound like the vilest insult imaginable.
However, that made absolutely zero sense.
I stared at her, lifting an eyebrow as I waited for her to explain.
When she didn’t, I asked, “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” she swallowed and then shook her head rapidly, “I’m very frustrated.”
“Yeah?” I scoffed. “Well, join the club.”
“I do not like you right now.”
“I don’t like you either. But what does that have to do with how many words are in my sentences?”
“Nothing.” She turned from me, grabbed her bag from where she’d placed it, and walked farther into the garage.
I started to follow. “Shelly—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.”
Biting back a curse, I let her go, thankful I’d completed so much work before she’d arrived. If our interaction just now was any indication, the rest of the day was going to suck.
* * *
Everything did suck.
Shelly wouldn’t speak to me, she wouldn’t look at me. You’d think I’d murdered her abominable parrot instead of suggesting being nice. It wasn’t until Thursday that she addressed me at all, and then it was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.
I was working on the under carriage of Jacob Templeton’s Buick. He’d driven over some rocks, like a fool. When I rolled out from under the car, I found Shelly hovering, waiting for me.
I blinked up at her. “Can I help you?”
“Do you . . . like to eat?”
“To eat?”
“Food.”
“Food?”
Dammit.
Here I was, sounding like her parrot again.
“Yes. Food.” She crossed her arms, glaring down at me.
This felt like a trick question, especially after several days of her cold-shoulder treatment. As such, I took my time thinking over potential hidden meanings and worst-case scenarios.
Once, when I was a kid, my daddy knocked my lights out after I’d complained about being hungry.
You’re hungry? Well, here’s a knuckle sandwich.
Drawing my legs up, I placed my elbows on my knees and peered up at her. She had strong hands, a strong body. She lifted tires and all manner of machinery without complaint, never once asked for help. Her left hook would probably make a considerable impact.
Shelly shifted her weight from foot to foot, which was the closest to fidgeting I’d ever seen her do. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was nervous.
Seeing no reason to delay further, I responded—but just in case, I readied myself to take a punch. “Yes. I’ve been known to eat food.”
“Good.” She nodded, inhaled, bit her bottom lip, and kept on nodding.
I waited for a few seconds.
When she didn’t speak, I stood, dusting my hands off on my coveralls. “Are you referring to any particular kind of food?”
“I like bread.” Shelly backed up as I straightened, her attention on the car behind me. She shoved her hands in her pockets, looking like she wanted to say more. Her cheeks were red, but I chalked that up to it being hot in the garage.
Another long pause. I huffed my impatience.
We were backed up. There’d been a Parkway accident on Monday and another on Wednesday. We had a ton of body work to do, a new transmission to install, an unusual number of drop-ins, and a post-summer surge of AC maintenance issues. No one had taken a lunch break, we were too busy, and here she was bringing up food.
I glanced at my watch. “You do?”
“Yes. How about you?” she asked, and then grit her teeth, scowling.
“I like bread just fine.”
“Good.” Shelly rubbed her forehead, now looking completely frustrated.
I had no idea what was going on in her head, and no time to finesse an answer out of her, so I asked plainly, “Shelly, why are you asking me about food?”
“Because it’s important to eat. I wanted to make sure that you’re eating.”
“You want to make sure I’m eating?”