Page 38 of Dahlia Made A List

“Fuckin’ games?”

“Don’t get huffy, Wy. It was just between me and Grams. They’re insisting on your presence, so don’t go backing out with some stupid excuse now. If you get me the matching Prada bag, I’ll promise to be glued to your side the whole time.”

I pushed her back, my hands on her forearms and slanted a look at her. “Get your own damn bag.”

She winked. “That’s not nearly as much fun as winning it off you.”

I tipped my chin toward the creeper on the ground. “Go on, then. I’ve got a drain bolt to replace.”

She went up on her tiptoes and tossed the water bottle like it was a basketball and she was lining up a three-pointer into the trash. “You could always bring Dahlia. Grams said you’ve been spending all your time with her.”

The back of my neck heated. “All my time? That why I’m here changing out a drain bolt in an old car?”

“There’s nothingoldleft on that car. You and Granddad upgraded every inch of it, so don’t even. And no need to get all defensive, Wy. From what Grams said, the woman might as well walk on water. Grams said her fridge is overstocked now that you’re getting your meals somewhere else.”

Grams liked to pretend I ate her out of house and home, but I only went by her farm a couple times a week to check on things. I’d fixed the fence on her north paddock just this week. If I helped myself to a meal while out that way . . . Well, a man got hungry working, didn’t he?

“Dahlia and I have a deal. Don’t make more of it than it is.”

Millsy hopped up onto the top of the workbench. Somehow the dust and dirt didn’t bother her, now that she was settling in to interrogate me.

“What kind of deal?”

“The kind that doesn’t need sneaky lawyers.”

“Grams would have been disappointed if I didn’t try something sneaky with her. It’s our thing. She was a Pendleton once upon a time, you know.” Millsy’s voice held the outrage of a thousand nuns. “Would you have me disappoint my own grandmother in her twilight years? And don’t dodge the question, cuz. What kind of deal?”

I sank down and laid back on the creeper and kicked to angle myself under the car.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation just because I can’t see your face, Wyatt Weston.”

From beneath the Firebird, I could see her swinging her legs from her seat on my workbench. She was settled in for the long haul. “Grams tell you about Dahlia’s list?”

“What kind of list?”

I’d take that as a no. And it was not my place to share Dahlia’s personal business. “Dahlia has a to-do list. I’m helping her with it. In exchange for my help, she feeds me.”

“Wow, you’re loving that.”

You’d think so. Until last night, somehow Dahlia always managed to overcook her meals. Timers were meaningless. Schedules a joke. I’d seen her stand over a baked chicken, pulling it out of the oven just as the timer sounded, and still drier than the Sahara. Did I say any of this to my cousin? I grunted.

“What are you helping her with?”

“Teaching her to drive.”

“Does she have a car? ‘Cause learning in your truck has got to be impossible.”

“We’re not using the truck.” I closed my eyes and waited.

“So she doesn’t have a car? What are you using?”

Opening my eyes, I stared at the spot where I needed to screw the drain bolt in. If I hadn’t left the damn bolt on the damn workbench before rolling under the car like the fuckin’ coward I was. Another heartbeat passed before Millsy’s gasp echoed in the quiet of the garage.

“You’re teaching her to drive with your precious Firebird? The 1988—”

“Seventy-eight—”

“Fully refurbished, Chevrolet Thundercat—”

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