Page 9 of Lovingly Restored

Ha, made you look.

“Am I supposed toforgive youwhen you die in some type of roadside inferno?”

I already recounted last night’s events, a slightly edited version, and she’s livid that I didn’t call her. For all the neatly organized parts of my life, car maintenance is not one of them. As much as I’d love to blame last night on the weather or that man, it’s my fault. Plain and simple.

“I’ll drop it on one condition.” She holds a manicured finger up. “No, two. Two conditions!” She adds a finger.

“Okay. Go.”

“One. You need to schedule a full inspection for your hunk of junk.”

“It’s running fine this morning…” I roll my eyes and let her go on.

“Two,” a slow smile spreads across her face, “tell me more about the hottie!” She combs a hand through her highlights, resting her head in her palm.

Just like that, the fight is over.

“Nowhere in my story did I describe him as hot. You added in that detail to make it more salacious.”

Anna shrugs. “Sounds hot to me.”

“How can someonesoundhot in a story?“ I shove the last bite of still warm blueberry muffin into my mouth to stifle impending oversharing. She’s reading me like a book.

She considers the question. “I dunno, but they can. The biggest giveaway is that vibrant shade of pink you’re turning right now.”

Great.

I surreptitiously place a couple of fingers on my throat. My pulse is fast for someone sitting on their bruised butt.

“He thought I was a hapless loser.” I take a slow, purposeful breath, forcing my circulatory system into submission. “It was pitch black out there and pouring rain. All I could tell about him was that he was tall and hadn’t shaved in a while. A beard can hide a lot of imperfections. Remember when Uncle Richard shaved his off, and we had to pretend we liked it?”

Anna slams her hand on the table before covering her mouth, trying to laugh inwardly and failing. A pre-schooler with blue eyes and a whipped cream moustache at the next table giggles like she’s in on the joke.

“Those blue eyes were gorgeous,” I say, savouring the last sweet sip of my London Fog.

Anna chokes on her latte. “I’m sorry, what?”

She leans so far over the table that I half expect her to crawl over it and take me by the collar of my sweatshirt.

“Hmm?” I feign confusion.

Shit.

I hoped to get away with a vague description and close the book on the subject.

She scans my face. “You’re holding out on me, Miss Carter.”

I take an interest in the foam at the bottom of my mug, but Anna won’t let me off the hook on this one.

“Hot doesn’t cover it. You win.”

“I knew it!” She raises a fist in victory.

“At first I was really fired up, but then we had this intense sort of eye contact and, I mean, hedidsave my ass out there.”

“Sounds dreamy.”

I set my mug down too hard when I remember the cringe-worthy parts. “My God, Anna. I was so awkward. I blushed worse than I am now. I didn’t even say a proper thank you!”

---