Page 144 of Ice Mechanic

“Sorry.” Her face a fire-red, April hides against my chest again.

I sigh happily and nuzzle my cheek against her hair. “Don’t apologize. I’d be happy to pass out like this any day.”

“Pass out?” April groans. “It was pretty long, wasn’t it?”

“You can kiss me as long as you like, Tink. I’ll go around with smelling salts in my pocket the way my old aunt Edna used to.”

She bursts out laughing and shakes her head, raining cute punches at my chest. “I just can’t with you, Chance McLanely.”

I capture her hand and kiss the back of it.

Just then, my phone rings.

“It’s my dad,” I announce.

Immediately, April turns as white as a sheet and leans away from me.

I allow her to have her space and answer, “Hey, dad.”

“Traffic was absolutely brutal, but we’ve arrived.” Dad’s cultured voice rings with anticipation. “Which gate was it again, son?”

“He’s here,” I whisper to April.

She stands and shuts her book, worrying her bottom lip.

I stand too. “Dad, I told you that you didn’t have to drive. You could have sent the chauffeur.”

Beside me, I sense April stiffen.

“Your mother had need of the driver today,” dad explains. “And I wanted to be there.” The sound of a horn honking rings behind him. “You still haven’t told me a gate number.”

I look for signs, trying not to run anyone over with my suitcase while moving forward. After giving dad the information, I escort April through the exits just as a shiny car glides to a stop in front of us.

April gasps loudly. “Is that a vintage Impala with a 283 Tri-Power V8 engine?”

“A 230… what?” I mutter, stumbling behind her.

“A lady who knows her stuff.” Dad smiles. “You must be April. Nice to meet you. I’m Randal.”

“Hi.” April shakes his hand, eyes glued to the car.

“Have you worked on a tri-power engine?”

“Worked on? Yeah, but not in a beauty like this. I’ve only seen vintage Impalas in public auction videos. I never thought I’d be able to ride one in real life.”

Dad preens so hard, if he were a peacock, all his feathers would be ruffling.

April walks around the car, her hand hovering over the paint but not actually touching it. “What a dream. Look at the grill and the tail fins are more subtle than the later 80’s models. It’s got to be a what? ’60?”

“It’s a ’65. Most people don’t recognize it right away because the design is so understated, but that’s exactly why I like it. Now, if you pop the hood, you’ll see the original husk, painstakingly remodeled by the best customization garage in the US. And if you walk this way…”

I clear my throat. “Hello? Dad? It’s me. Yourson.”

Dad whirls around in shock. “Oh yes. Chance, welcome back!” He hurries back to the sidewalk and gives me a hug.

I peer down at dad’s salt-and-pepper hair, smelling a rat. “You offered to pick me up so you could show up in the Impala, didn’t you?”

“It’s rare to meet a like-minded individual with good taste in automobiles. Leave me alone,” he whispers.

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