Page 46 of The Accidental Text

She sniffs again. “Maybe Ishouldgo to bed.”

“I think so,” I say.

“Wait—I need to mark where the cars will park tomorrow.”

“I can do that,” I say.

“But—”

“I’ve got this, Chels.”

She has a detailed map of where everything will go, so I’m pretty sure I can figure it all out.

“Okay,” she says so quietly I barely hear her.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” She reaches up and wipes her eyes. “I’ll go home.”

After a few minutes of arguing over whether she’s actually capable of driving home, I pile Chelsea into her car and send her home with the strict rule that she go straight to bed, and then I text Mark for backup. I also text Chase and tell him why I haven’t written him back.

With no response from him, I go to the back of the shop in search of the black tape to mark the parking lot with.

As I open the door, I see that there’s a spotlight directed at aMustang getting a full bright-red matte wrap. Dawson is at the front of the car, working on the hood, a belt around the waist of his coveralls with all his tools in it.

“Hi,” I say, giving him a little wave when he looks my way. It’s strange to see him in here by himself. Usually the room is bustling with people, lots of chatter and laughter as they work. It’s quiet in here, except for the faint sounds of music coming from a portable speaker near where Dawson is working.

He gives me one of those irresistible smiles of his, and my heart does this little pitter-patter thing.He’s taken, Maggie. You utter fool.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks.

“Just doing some last-minute stuff. Gotta mark where the cars on display are parking tomorrow.”

“Gotcha.”

“Is the tape—” I cut off, pointing over to the shelves on the left side of the shop where we keep most of the supplies.

“Yeah,” he says, then joins me over by the wall, showing me where it is.

I grab a roll and hold it in my hands. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll just,” I say, pointing to the door, indicating where I plan to exit. Like a moron.

Then I realize we’re alone. In the shop. Probably in the entire building.

“Why are you still working on that car?” I ask.

He looks at the Mustang and then back at me. “Chad,” he says.

I nod. “Right,” I say. “We probably should consider letting him go.”

“I’d have to agree,” he says, reaching up and running a hand through his thick dark-blond hair.

If we get rid of Chad, will we have anything to talk about?

“Ready for the party tomorrow?” I ask.

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