Page 3 of Gifts

When I get closer, I see the voice belongs to a large man—a man who’s tall and incredibly handsome.

No, not just handsome. He’s off-the-charts amazingly beautiful, in a rugged sort of way.

I haven’t seen a sight so fascinating in a long while. Not in real life, anyway. Sure, Stephie tags me in pics of hot guys who must be ten years my junior all the time on Instagram and Facebook. She even has me following Hot Guys and Hummus, which is just hot guys eating hummus. But none of them have anything on the man standing before me now.

This man is here in the flesh and needs no hummus to be hot. He shifts his weight and folds his arms across his wide chest, taking a wide stance in his worn jeans and work boots. His brown hair looks like it could use a trim, but unlike his hair, his beard is clipped short and neatly trimmed. I can’t tell what color his eyes are since he’s squinting at me, and I think he’s squinting because he’s smirking.

Oh, shit. He’s smirking at me.

“I don’t need a lady’s help to change a flat.”

“Like I said, thanks, but there’s no need,” Stan reiterates.

“Please.” I ignore Stan. “I don’t think he knows how to change a tire.”

Stan’s voice becomes sharp. “I know how to change a tire. I pay for roadside assistance so I don’t have to.”

I tip my head and raise my brows at Stan. I’m so over him and our date from hell. Throwing my hand toward the beautifully-rugged man smirking at me, I point out the flaw in Stan’s plan. “Meanwhile, we’re stuck here for the next hour-and-a-half when this gentleman has clearly offered his assistance.”

Our guest’s expression changes from a smirk to confused. “You two married?”

“No!” Stan and I both answer at the same time, but I keep talking. “Really, I’ll help. We’re almost out of light. If we hurry, we won’t be changing a tire in the dark.”

My knight in old jeans and work boots starts to move around Stan’s car and orders, “Pop the trunk.”

“Yes,” I agree, with a smile on my face. “Pop the trunk.”

Stan shakes his head and mumbles a string of curse words as I tippy-toe back through the ditch trying to save my shoes. When I meet my new hero at the rear of the car, I offer my hand. “I’m Keelie. Thank you so much. You’re saving me an hour and a half of having to stand out here. The sooner this day ends the better.”

He opens the trunk and I look up at him, but I’m used to looking up to most everyone. He’s got to be over six feet and his bulky work boots make him even taller. In bare feet, I squeak in at five-four.

He speaks as he rummages around Stan’s trunk. “The night is young. You never know—you could still salvage the day. Saturday’s the best day of the week.”

I try not to sound sarcastic because he is helping me get home faster, which is the only thing that could possibly salvage my day at this point. “I prefer Mondays.”

This gets his attention and he looks to me with a frown. “Mondays? Who likes Mondays?”

Even through his frown, I now see his eyes are dark, but have a hint of green lining his pupils. He’s got a few tiny lines framing his eyes that only add to his rugged package—a complete contradiction from the man who just took me on the first date I’ve been on in fourteen years.

I give my head a little shake. “I don’t know. I guess I like the comfort of a schedule and predictability.”

His frown turns incredulous. “Sounds like someone needs to show you how to appreciate a Saturday.” He lifts the spare tire out of the trunk like it’s a feather pillow and grabs a bunch of other gadgets I saw on my how-to-change-a-tire video. When he slams the trunk, he juts his chin toward Stan. “Looks like he needs to up his Saturday game.”

I look to where Stan is standing with his phone to his ear. He’s being a sour-flower, ignoring us. I don’t want to come across as a bitch, so I go for vague and fib, “No, no. Stan’s fine, it’s me.”

He widens his hazel eyes before I lose sight of them when he looks at the flat. “If you say so.”

I watch him bend to loosen the bolts with a big tool—thinking I could’ve easily handled this part—and for some reason try to convince him I’m not an oddball for liking Mondays. “The beginning of the week is a new start. I feel productive and sort of have a new lease on life. By the time Wednesday or Thursday roll around, I realize how much of what I needed to get done didn’t get done, and my new lease on life fades away. This happens weekly. Don’t even get me started on Fridays. By Friday, I’m exhausted.”

At this point, my new friend is well past my YouTube knowledge of how to change a tire and I have no idea what he’s doing. The front of Stan’s car is jacked up and he’s pulling off the flat with little effort. Tossing it to the pavement, he reaches for the spare. “I’ve never heard anyone so obsessed with days of the week. No wonder you’re exhausted.”

I know for a fact he’s right, but I’m not about to admit it. “Maybe. Do you not keep a schedule?”

He keeps his eyes on his task as he speaks. “Work when I need to work, which is usually every day, and relax when I can. I just recently started sticking to a schedule. Can’t lie, even though it’s necessary, it can be shit.”

Finally, something I can agree with wholeheartedly. “Yes. It can be shit.”

At my last word, he looks up from where he’s crouched at the side of Stan’s car. He smiles, making his rugged face come alive and his eyes do that thing that’s very becoming on him.

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