Page 12 of Mustang Summer

She glanced out the window to see a perky little brunette strutting down the street, a big smile on her face.Gage was marching out to meet her, his body language tight and he was gesturing to the house.Hmm, not Camilla.Another of Gage’s rumored conquests?The one who was seeing him through his loneliness after Josie had left him?

She turned back to her dad.“How ’bout I go talk to the guy a couple days before Jesse’s court date?”

It wasanother blistering day and Brock was navigating backroads to reach the address of the Shelby GT500.Mr.Blackwood lived well outside of Detroit Lakes city limits.Brock had already missed a turn and had to find an approach to turn around in.

He checked his GPS again.Dammit, it said the turn was here.

He looked around.Fences and wheat fields and trees dotted the countryside enough that he couldn’t see a thing.

He punched in the address and waited for it to register.Same directions.Turn where there’s no fucking turn.

Puffing out a breath, he took the first right he came across.There was a copse of trees that the road disappeared into.It came out the other side and swung another right.Suddenly, his GPS was back on track.

He fumed and followed the directions to the house arriving exactly ten minutes late.

An older man with a stooped back was pulling some weeds from a flower bed.The car wasn’t in sight, likely stored in the old garage across the yard from the house.

Brock parked and got out.

The man straightened and eyed Brock with disapproval.“Brock Walker?”

“Yes, sir.”Brock scanned the expansive yard with a square farmhouse that had at least fifty years on his own place.

Make eye contact when greeting someone.

He pulled his gaze back to Mr.Blackwood.

The man shuffled to him and stuck out his hand.Brock shook it dutifully.

Apologize when you’re late, Brockie.It’s expected.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Hmph.”Mr.Blackwood shuffled to the house’s wrap around porch.“I been waitin’ on ya for twenty minutes.”

Brock followed.“I’m ten minutes late.”

“Ever heard the expression ‘If you’re on time, you’re late’?”Mr Blackwood shook his head and muttered, “Kids these days.”

“I’ve heard the expression, but I’m not a kid.I’m twenty-five.”

That earned him a scowl.Brock tensed.What had he said wrong?Mr.Blackwood reminded him a lot of his Grandpa Walker.Gramps had dealt less well with Brock than Brock’s father had.Brock and his dad managed a small bond over their cars, but Gramps had several other grandchildren that weren’t awkward and quiet.He’d gravitated toward them more than Brock.

“Have a seat.”

Brock planted himself in the plastic deck chair.Two glasses of lemonade sweated on a round, green plastic table.A small breeze made it tolerable to be outside of air conditioning, although he doubted the house had AC anyway.

“Why do you want the car?”Mr.Blackwood’s keen gaze studied him from under his worn cowboy hat.

“I want to fix it up.”

“Son, I’ve about had it with you already.I’d think long and hard about your answer if you’re serious about the car.I bought that gem when it rolled off the line and drove my wife all over town.Showed ’em both off.”His voice hitched and he fell silent.

Brock rattled off everything he knew about the make and model.“The ’68 Shelby GT500 has a seven liter V8 engine and cranks out well over three hundred horse-power.It’s a drag racer’s favorite.”

A suspicious gleam entered Blackwood’s eyes.“Into racing?”

“No.”

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