Page 17 of Wrecked for Love
“Let’s get your car fixed,” I said, pulling on my boots. “You think you can manage the walk?”
Claire stayed rooted on the porch, frowning. “Why can’t we just take your truck? We drove here last night, didn’t we?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Never seen mud before?”
She crossed her arms, eyeing me with a mix of irritation and defiance. “Seriously? These are my comfortable shoes.”
I glanced down at her light sneakers. Yep, those wouldn’t survive the mud bath ahead, especially not with that puddle that looked more like a swamp. But I couldn’t resist.
“Fine, I’ll fix your car myself,” I offered, stepping toward the driveway.
“No! No! Wait!” She jumped off the porch and grabbed my arm. “We’ll do it together.”
I glanced down at her shoes again, trying not to grin. Still cautious, huh? Even willing to risk her precious “comfortable shoes” over her trust issues. She must’ve forgotten—I didn’t even have her car keys.
“All right, we’ll take the truck.” I backed it up, sparing her from another muddy step.
Branches littered the driveway, and the fields beyond looked like they’d been drenched in a cold shower, their long grass still bent from the wind. The whole world seemed washed clean, buther car didn’t get the memo. The thing was a mess—mud caked up to the windows, the hood still dripping with water, and the windshield smeared with dirt. I shook my head, unable to resist a grin.
“Looks like your car fought Mother Nature and lost,” I commented, reminding her of last night’s stubbornness.
She sighed, giving in. “Fine, fine. You want credit? You saved me. I admit, it was stupid to insist on staying in the car.”
I shook my head in amusement. “Not looking for credit, just trying to fix this up. Got any tools?” I asked, rounding to the trunk.
She quickly stepped in front of me. “I’ll get them.”
Her reaction was almost too quick, too guarded. Like she didn’t want me anywhere near whatever was in that trunk.
“Huh, so thereisa dead body on my property?” I quipped.
She shot me a glare and handed me the toolbox. “No bodies,” she said flatly, but her eyes had that edge of defensiveness.
“Any idea what’s wrong with the car?” I asked, more to test her than anything.
She gave me a pointed look. “No clue. I’ve driven this baby for three years, not a single problem.”
“Guess it picked a scenic spot to break down,” I said, gesturing to the surrounding landscape.
She glanced around as if truly noticing the view for the first time, then slid her fingers under the hood latch. “My bet’s on the spark plugs.”
I narrowed my eyes, realizing she wasn’t as clueless as she pretended to be. “Fuel injectors,” I challenged, crossing my arms.
“You’re on!”
With a confident smirk, she popped the hood. We leaned in, eyes on the engine, like two detectives on the case. At one point, she bumped my hand with the wrench.
“Careful,” I warned, resisting the urge to smear my greasy fingers across her cheek. “This isn’t amateur hour, you know.”
“Amateur? Looks like you’re the one who needs a how-to manual,” she shot back with a restrained smile, shoving another tool in my direction.
I shot her a mock glare but went back to business, checking the injectors. Everything looked fine—visually, at least. Still, I knew we might need the big guns—more tools—but I decided to check the usual suspects first, starting with the spark plugs, since she was so sure they were the culprits.
“Aha!” she exclaimed when I pulled the plugs out. “Look at these—dirtier than a dog’s chew toy. And don’t they look a little worn to you?”
“Damn it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Spark plugs it is.”
Beaming victoriously, she nudged me with her elbow. “Told you.”
