Page 71 of The Charm of You

As it turns out, the shop isn’t the best idea to distract me. All I’ve done is sulk and fill the silence with my incriminating thoughts, one of which is the nagging suspicion that last night was a one-time thing for Caroline. We had our fun, like we agreed, and that was that.

If I had to guess, it’s why she didn’t say a word after the bridge. We were alone during the entire ride back to her car at the Buchanan House, and she kept her lips sealed like she was attempting to win some bet I wasn’t privy to.

I didn’t offer anything, either, but that’s not out of the ordinary for me. When she’s quiet, it’s disarming as hell.

“Music,” I mumble as I lurch for my phone. Music will replace my zigzagging trail of thoughts with much-needed noise.

Except “Wild as Her” by Corey Kent is the first song to come on, and all it does is remind me of karaoke night last weekend. My band and I sang this song, and from the stage, my eyes quickly found Caroline’s and never left.

Her lips moved as she sang along so effortlessly. It was hot, and last night, that mouth of hers was even hotter. She drove me damn crazy.

I work faster to outrun the fresh memories, but it’s no use. I officially have my boxers in a twist over of a girl.

I’m almost finished when the sun finally rises, and a pale-yellow glow filters through the windows, which grows brighter and brighter over the next few minutes until I feel like they’re watching me.

I double-check the new starter, then drop the hood and rub my hands, ready to move onto my next metal patient, of sorts.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I’ll work on an out-of-towner’s truck next, and if there’s time before Judd gets here, I’ll check over the shop’s bills. With Judd’s mind the way it is, he sometimes forgets to pay things like the electric. After the second time of showing up here with no lights, I decided I’d secretly check up on the backend.

Of course, I can’t tell him, because it would destroy the old bastard’s pride, but I’ve always done what I’ve needed to do to protect and care for the people I love. I’m not going to stop now, no matter how jumbled my fucking head is because of a girl.

She said she has a crush on me, and no matter how collected I attempt to remain, I can’t help but be wildly satisfied by the confession.

But did she really mean it?

Given my experience and history, it’s hard to believe the truth of such an idea when it seems more like a figment of my undying imagination.

By midmorning, I stalk out of the office, confident everything’s in order, but I stop in the center of the shop when blonde hair and long legs catch my attention.

Those legs were wrapped around my head last night—in the back of my damn truck, no less, like a filthy magazine spread.

As I approach, Caroline spins around, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling. While she might’ve changed and grown up in many ways since high school, her eyes haven’t. They’ve always shone like the early sun reflecting off a river. They give the impression that she’s hiding a playful secret.

And she’s in jeans today. Fucking skintight denim plastered to her sinful legs. She’s trying to kill me, isn’t she?

“What’re you doing here?” I ask, and the second it’s out of my mouth, I realize I should’ve greeted her with something more akin to “good morning,” or “it’s nice to see you.”

But of course, I tripped over such normal manners similarly to little Jimmy, who fumbled with his skateboard and face-planted outside the shop last month.

“I still need to pick up my car.” She points around a coffee cup in the direction of her SUV, which is when I realize she has a second cup. The lavender logo on the front stares back at me, and a confusing mix of excitement and hesitation skitters down my back.

Smiling, she hands one to me, but I don’t immediately accept it.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A trap,” she teases, but I don’t laugh.

My insides twist with uncertainty—this feels oddly intimate.

After what she and I did last night, her showing up at my place of work with a coffee for me should be innocent enough, but this feels outside the realm of the fun we agreed to.

I don’t have much experience with “the morning after,” as the women I usually hook up with tend to be gone by the time the sun rises. They definitely don’t bring me coffee.

And the worst part about this, as with everything else concerning Caroline, I hate that I don’t hate this.

“Relax,” she says with an easy smile. She seems relaxed enough for the both of us. “It’s just a coffee. I even had Maren leave you a fun surprise on the side.”

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