Page 33 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

He shrugs. “Sure. And as for the ‘stupid’ thing…let’s see. My father, a time or two, when I refused to study law. A few ex-girlfriends, I’m sure,” he says conversationally as he crouches down in front of my tire and starts to work. His shirt sleeves are once again rolled up to his forearms, and I watch, weirdly fascinated at the way those muscles flex as he loosens the lug nuts and then positions the jack.

By now the halfhearted rain has died down, but the wind is still going strong. I scratch my upper chest again before folding my arms, hoping to hold my damp shirt—and my damp cabbage—in place. I watch as Dex works smoothly, efficiently, like he’s changed a million tires in his life.

He’s socompetent. It’s obnoxious, really.

“Maya?”

“Huh?” I say, jumping when I realize Dex is looking at me expectantly. Crap. Did I miss something because I was looking at him?

“You’re staring at me,” he says, giving me a funny look before nodding at the tire, which is now suspended a few inches above the ground. “You said you wanted me to show you this stuff?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, a little flustered from being caught looking at him.

He nods. “Come closer, then. You can watch while I do this.”

Ha. He wants me to bend over and potentially assault him with rogue cabbage leaves? Not happening. He would thank me for this decision if he understood. “I can see from up here,” I say.

Dex looks up at me from over his shoulder. “Fine, but you’re not going to be able to try yourself.”

Crap. He’s right. Trying to look casual, I clamp one arm over my chest and neckline and then lean forward, doing a sort of half-bend, half-crouch that’s completely unsustainable.

“Okay, so see this?” he says, seemingly satisfied that I’m finally getting a closer look at what he’s doing. It is adarngood thing I’m holding my shirt in place, because I can feel something bunchy and wrinkly and suspiciously cabbage-leaf-like under my shirt.

“Do you want to do it now, or do you want me to finish?” Dex says, and I realize with a start I’ve completely tuned him out in the midst of my cabbage woes.

“Sorry?” I say, blinking at him.

“I asked if you want to try,” he says, holding out the lug wrench. “Want to take the lug nuts the rest of the way off?”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I do.” It will just require some careful maneuvering.

I can do this, right? Yes. Women change tires all the time without cabbage falling out of their shirts.

So slowly, ever so slowly, I reach out and take the lug wrench he’s offering me. This crouching, bending thing I’m doing is murdering my quad muscles, and I try to shift to get more comfortable.

“Good,” Dex says. Then he starts talking again, but I’m barely paying attention, because something is shifting in my shirt as the wind whips and blows.

Oh, no,I think desperately as the wind blows harder still. This is bad. I canfeelthe cabbage making its way down my chest, my ribs, and I should have held these leaves in place with a tank top or something. I try to curl my upper body in on itself, panicking—Don’t do it. Don’t fall out. Don’t fall out—

Splat.

Dex breaks off mid-sentence. I watch as his eyes travel, as though in slow motion, to where I’m still doing my weird bending, crouching thing.

There, splatted on the asphalt, is one wilty, soggy cabbage leaf. I wait for it to blow away, but it seems to be suctioned to the wet ground.

Cabbage leaf down! Cabbage leaf down!

I stand upright immediately, and even the rain can’t cool down the heat in my cheeks. My eyes are wide as I stare, mortified, at Dex.

He stands too, moving slowly, and then clears his throat. With an apologetic wince, he points at my shirt, and I look down—only to find the other cabbage leaf hanging out the bottom of my shirt, a sad little peekaboo. I give it a tug, and it slides right out, dangling limply in my grasp.

And it is there, holding limp cabbage in the middle of my driveway, that I first hear Dexter Anthony laugh.

I guess, for some reason, I thought he’d have sort of a robotic laugh, tinny and metallic. He’s so uptight and straight-laced and all that. Sure, he smiles, and I’ve even heard a chuckle before, but this…this is a different beast altogether.

His laugh is free and uninhibited in a way I never expected. It’s not loud, but nor is it soft. It’s deep and pleasant and somehow makes him look years younger, despite his businessy dress shirt—which, I notice, has been unbuttoned a few buttons at the neck, exposing a triangle of smooth, pale skin.

Huh. He really can’t be that much older than me.

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