Page 11 of The Pucker and the Princess
Her lips curl in a satisfied smile. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. You can help me with my project car later. Even thoughyou don’t know anything, sometimes I need an extra pair of hands.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll run and grab my keys. Be right back.” She’s already stepping backwards as she speaks, then turns and hurries away, leaving me staring at her until she disappears.
Once she’s out of sight, it hits me that maybe I should’ve just had my truck towed to a garage. I’m sure Nick knows a good place. Didn’t he mention having to get something fixed on his wife’s car recently?
Because wasn’t I planning to avoid this woman? And now I’ve signed myself up to spend the rest of today with her and some unknown quantity of time to work off the debt, as though I couldn’t afford to pay to have my car fixed.
Why do I always manage to screw myself over?
CHAPTER SIX
Marissa
“What’s in it for me?”I mutter to myself as I make my way back to my condo to grab my purse and car keys. “He has the gall to ask what’s in it for me? Like I’m somehow manipulatinghimby offering to help?”
If anything, I’m falling back into my tendency to over-give.
I mean, the nerve. I’m giving upmytime andmyenergy out of the goodness of my heart to help out a guy who seems to be doing okay, based on living here and the suit he had on today. But his truck is over ten years old, possibly closer to twenty, and he seems really upset about the idea of it needing work.
While it’s been a while since I’ve worked in a shop, having worked the front desk for so long, I’m intimately familiar with the look of someone who just found out their car needs an expensive repair they can’t easily afford. The cost of a tow truck plus parts and labor? Even for something as simple as a battery replacement, it’s a few hundred bucks, easy. And if you’re living without much cushion, that can be really difficult.
I mean, yeah, I know he plays hockey. And if he had a preseason game, I assume he plays professionally. I didn’t bother to look up the team name he said, and I don’t know anything about hockey, so I don’t know if it’s a minor league type team or big boy hockey that pays the big bucks. But even with sports I know better—like football—I know it’s entirely possible to make it to the pros and not make a ton of money. Or if he’s a rookie and he got all excited and spent a bunch of money on hookers and blow—or whatever hockey players like to spend money on when they party—he might not have much leftover now.
So I figure the least I can do is give him a ride to get a battery then help him learn to replace it. If he can do simple jobs himself, he can save himself money. Of course, he’ll have to buy the battery, but that’s a significant savings over the battery plus everything else.
The only other people I know who get upset about their car needing work is when someone has a collectible car but they aren’t the one who rebuilt it. There’s the financial pain but also the emotional pain of something they care about needing work.
Dozer’s car isn’t anywhere near that nice, though, so the only conclusion I can come to is that paying to get his car fixed would put a strain on his finances.
And, sure, he was an ass the first time I encountered him, but he’s apologized for that. Twice. And he hasn’t been an ass when we’ve interacted about his car.
Of course not. You’re helping him.
But honestly, that wouldn’t make a difference to an actual asshole. He’d feel entitled to my help regardless of his behavior.
Still, though. The question remains. Why am I doing this? Why do I feel compelled to help this guy? His car and possible money problems aren’t my business.
Being neighborly has its limits, doesn’t it?
I’m back in the parking garage with no satisfactory answers to the questions ping-ponging around in my brain, and though I head for Dozer’s spot, he’s nowhere in sight.
I stop in my tracks and heave an annoyed sigh.
“Marissa!”
Spinning around at the sound of my name, I see Dozer jogging toward me. He’s put on a T-shirt under his hoodie, and I can’t help lamenting the fact that I don’t get to stare at the sliver of bare chest he had on display before. We are going to a store, though, so I guess it makes sense he’d want to have a shirt on.
“Sorry.” He gives me a dazzling smile. “I realized I didn’t have a real shirt on. I was hoping I could get up and back before you made it back down, but I see you’re pretty speedy.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I just blink for a second. “Oh, uh, right. Well, my car’s over here.” I gesture farther down the line and start walking. He falls in step beside me, and I’m hyper aware of him, his bulk, his athletic grace. He moves like someone who knows exactly how his body will respond with smooth and effortless control.
“So, uh, hockey, you said?”
I glance his way and catch a smirk on his face. “Yeah.” He draws the word out like he’s waiting for some kind of punchline.
Nodding like a bobblehead, I gesture at my car, then climb into the driver’s side. I put in the name of a popular chain of auto parts stores in my navigation system and pick one that’s close while Dozer gets buckled.
