Page 20 of Dahlia Made A List

I grunted. “The Batmobile is CGI.”

She laughed again. My lips twitched and I turned to look at her. With her colorful hair up in a high ponytail, wearing a top that bared her midriff and dipped low between round breasts, and perched behind the wheel of a classic muscle car, she could have been pulled from any gearhead’s fantasy.

From my fantasy.

That ember flickered again, heat burning my palms with the need to touch her. Would her skin feel as silky smooth as it looked? Was she born with her sweet-as-honey shade, or was it a product of the sun? Maybe I could hunt down a tan line, if I put my mind and fingers and lips to the task?

“Okay,” she said, pulling me from my dangerous thoughts. “Okay. I got this.”

I grunted.

“You’ll see.”

She cranked the engine, jammed the stick into first gear and sucked her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.

Fuck me.

Another minute passed and she had us traveling along the rough, old track. “Get ready to shift into second.”

An hour later, she was cruising around the back loop and nagging me to turn on the music. “You get music when you can change gears without launching me outta my seat.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to concentrate better with music.” She took one hand from the wheel to point it at me like a schoolteacher. “Or at least smother your backseat grumbling.”

“Not grumbling when I’m teaching.” I grumbled. “Both hands on the wheel.”

Not that we were on some dangerous terrain. The back loop covered maybe a quarter mile straightaway, at most. But it was peaceful out here, quiet. “You gotta get a learner’s permit from the DMV or take a course before you can get a real license. Take the tests.” I slanted a look her way. “Not sure you can arrange all that before the tryout in two weeks.”

“Oh, you’re right. Duh. I didn’t think of all that.”

I imagined being limited to walking or being dependent on someone else for my transportation. Weston Mill wasn’t a big city where a person could jump on a public bus or train and go anywhere. The Three Corners area had a shuttle for special cases and unreliable rideshare drivers. I remembered from her rental app that she’d come up here from Richland. It had to have been a huge adjustment, but even so Richland only had the bare minimum for public transportation and that focused around the metro area.

“I’ll drive you down.” The offer escaped before the thought even formed in my head.

She gasped, jerking on the gas. “You will?”

“Stop up here. Time to switch places, head back to the truck.” Time for some space.

“Hey, let’s make a bargain. I’ll feed you in exchange for driving lessons and stuff.” She eased the car to a slow stop, unfastened her seatbelt and turned in the seat until her knee propped against the center console. Toned, bare skin. Warm honey temptation. “I’ve got to learn my Signature Dish, and no one can judge their own food, right? Let me practice on you?”

I heaved myself out of the car and rounded the rear to meet her as she stood in the open driver’s side door. Eyes an intoxicating wash of gray and blue stared up at me, wide and eager. Her plump lips parted, faintly stained from the cherry-red color she’d painted them earlier.

Pure temptation.

“Yeah.”

TheAceHardwaresaton its own lot along Main Street, with a few parking spaces at the back of the building. I could see the entrance to Maia’s Beauty Spa from here. Twenty ’til six. I had time.

A county sheriff’s cruiser took up one of the parking spots lining the street. I nosed my vehicle in front of it, shoved out of the truck and stalked inside the hardware store. The old fella behind the counter nodded as I passed him and headed to the aisle I needed.

I scanned the selection, searching for the familiar logo and packaging of the brand I used. Between the rentals and the drive-in, I’d figured out most of the common items. Could recognize them by the logo and contents. No need to read the packaging.

Not that I could read it, if I had to.

Black sheep of one of the most influential families in Three Corners. No college, escaping high school by the skin of my teeth. I only made it through because of my last name and with Millsy’s help. Granddad sitting my ass down in front of a fifty-foot screen at The Royal to watch the movie versions made surviving high school Lit classes possible. Now, I got by with audiobooks and text-to-speech and all the tricks I’d learned over the years.

Because heaven forbid a Weston be revealed to the world as anything less than perfect. Lazy, stubborn, unmotivated, all better explanations than the stigma of a child unable to read.

My cell rang as I was checking out. “Yup.”

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