Page 13 of The Pucker and the Princess
Shaking his head, he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s not a big deal. But you clearly put in effort to make yourself look good.”
I wait until I park the car to turn and look at him. “I’m literally wearing a raggedy sweater right now with my hair in a ponytail.”
“So?” he counters. “I wore a suit earlier, then put on pads and a sweater and got all hot and sweaty, then came home and put on sweats. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just saying,” I protest, feeling defeated already. This is what arguments with Peter were always like. My points never seemed to matter much. Not to him, anyway. And this same tendency for men to argue like this is why none of my other relationships lasted long either. “I don’t dress up unless I have a reason to. My default, like yours, is sweats or leggings. Comfy clothes. And when I’m working on cars, I’m even more raggedy.”
“Uh-huh,” he agrees, sounding doubtful.
I make a sound of frustration and climb out of the car, waiting for him to join me.
“Look,” he says, offering me a placating smile that has me narrowing my eyes—I hate being placated—“it doesn’t matter if you think you’re classy. The fact is, you work hard to project that image. I assume it works well for you given your recent promotion.”
I snort. “It’s a double-edged sword, at best. If I don’t look put together and, as you put it, classy, then I obviously don’t take my job seriously, but looking good also means clients don’t take meseriously because what couldIpossibly know about cars? After all, I get my nails done and have shiny hair. How could there be room in my pretty little head for knowing the specs of our catalog or the history of classic cars?”
He gives me an appraising look that doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. But instead of responding directly to anything I’ve said, he stops just inside the store and looks around. “So does that mean you know what kind of battery I need? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes. “Come on.”
We’re in and out with a new battery in less than fifteen minutes and headed back to our condo building so we can get his car and head to my garage. It’s getting late, and I’d normally be relaxing and getting ready for bed soon, but I don’t want to leave him in the lurch when I promised I’d help him.
Not for the first time, I’m irked about having my project garage so far off site. I’m used to having it in the garage in my house. But houses here aren’t as easy to find as they are in the Metroplex, and the cost of housing is higher. I wanted to be close to my office, which meant sacrificing a single family home for proximity to work, being in the city itself, and a secure building.
I suppose once I get used to living here, I could find somewhere else that meets my needs as I understand them then, but coming to scope out places to live is vastly different from understanding what I want and need in a city I’ve lived in for a few years.
Once we’re back at the condo, I climb out of the car. “Let me run back up to my place and change into my clothes for working on cars.” I look him up and down. “If you don’t mind getting those dirty, you should be fine.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth like there’s a joke he wants to tell but isn’t sure how it would land. Of course he has no idea I lived with the dirty joke king of Denton High School when my brother Lance was a teenager. So I stifle my own smile and head for the door. “Meet you back down here in ten.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dozer
Once again,I watch my gorgeous new neighbor disappear from sight. I don’t understand why she’s willing to help me, but I’m not going to question it too closely. Not when I’m enjoying spending time with her. It’s a strange experience being on the receiving end of help without her expecting anything really in return. Sure, she mentioned something about asking for my help when she needs an extra pair of hands, but it’s not like she’s trying to get me to pull strings to get her a brand deal or demanding I take her out to a fancy restaurant where paparazzi are known to hang out so we can be photographed together.
Glancing down at my clothes, I think about changing again, but I shrug, deciding I don’t care that much. These aren’t bargain basement sweats, but they’re not designer athleisure like Jenny begged me for or like even a few of my teammates prefer to wear when they’re off the ice.
I’m a simple man with simple tastes. I like quality, but I don’t care that much about the name on the tag. If it fits, it’scomfortable, and it does what it needs to—makes me look good if I’m dressing up, keeps me warm in the cold, or keeps me cool in the heat—that’s what I care about.
I grew up shopping thrift stores and sales and playing in second hand gear because the costs of competing on travel teams and AAA hockey to get a chance at getting drafted to the Juniors meant Mom and Dad had to scrimp and save where we could. It was worth it to me, though. And the few times I complained about not having whatever cool thing everyone at school seemed to have, Dad would look me in the eye and ask, “Would you rather have that? Or would you rather go to the tournament next weekend? Because it’s one or the other, kiddo. We can’t afford both.”
A glance at Mom always confirmed he wasn’t bluffing, and eventually I just accepted that playing hockey at that level meant sacrificing elsewhere. I didn’t realize at the time how much my parents gave up to finance my dreams, but now, as an adult, I know not everyone gets the opportunities I did. Sure, we had to cut back in other areas. And Mom taught piano for extra money while Dad worked full time as a plumber, taking more emergency call outs than the other guys he worked with so he could make extra money.
So now I do my best to spoil them.
While I wait, I wander over to my car. Marissa said she’ll give me a jump, and then we’ll head to her garage.
I’m playing around on my phone—the latest in a string of silly games that I jump on and play until I get tired of them and then move to another. This one you send your little blue guys to take over the other towers on the board until you occupy them all,battling it out with red and green. It’s a little bit strategic, a little bit funny, and it does a good job of passing the time.
I’m so engrossed that I don’t even notice Marissa has returned and gotten her car until I hear her close the car door and say, “Ready?”
Nearly jumping from surprise, I quickly turn off my phone and slip it into my pocket. “Yup! Ready.”
She laughs, and I like the sound. It’s so natural and effervescent, low and throaty, not trying to be extra feminine or anything with a silly giggle. I’ve finally started to recognize that. Not without help, of course. It was Tina, Nick Abernathy’s wife, who sat me down when I was moping about breaking up with Jenny and explained how every woman I get involved with has the same list of red flags. “Maybe you should keep an eye out for those,” she’d said, patting my hand and leaving me stunned while she dealt with another of an endless stream of demands from her offspring.
Nick’s an involved dad, but with two munchkins, sometimes you need both parents on the ice to handle the opposing team.
Their house is nearly always chaotic, especially in contrast to the silence of my own place, but being there makes me feel like I’m part of something. Part of a family. I may be an only child, but we grew up near both my parents’ families, so free weekends, holidays, and summers were spent with boisterous aunts and uncles and cousins who I roamed around with like a pack of coyotes, causing mischief and running amok until we got sent to the park down the street to play basketball until dark.
