Page 14 of The Pucker and the Princess
Nick’s kids are still young, but the running and squealing and desire to use all adult men as jungle gyms makes me feel loved.
I should call my mom tomorrow. It’s too late tonight. But we haven’t talked in over a week. We’re due for a call.
This time, Marissa walks me through jumping the car. “We can’t have a pretty boy like you always relying on the kindness of strangers. Don’t you know that not all strangers are kind?” She flashes me a grin, her lips shining with a fresh coat of gloss. She might try to act like she’s good with being grungy with herI can change a car battery/working on cars is a fun pastime/look at me in my sweatsattitude, but she can’t fool me. A fresh coat of lip gloss? At the very least, that’s to make herself feel more presentable in company.
“So you think I’m pretty, huh?” I ask, giving her a sly half smile.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “That’s what you took from that?”
My smile grows wider. “Of course. Was there something else I should’ve taken instead?”
That elicits another chuckle. “I’ll text you the address of my garage while we wait for your battery to charge. That way you don’t have to worry too much about following me if we get separated in traffic.”
Another quip about wanting to ride her ass is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in. I don’t know her well enough to know if she’d think it’s playful banter or that I’m being a gross creep. And even in my head, it sounds like something a gross creep would say to a woman he barely knows, so I keep that to myself. Because I might be a lot of things—a jock who barely graduated high school and an overly sentimental dumbass, for starters—my mom raised me to be a gentleman too.
“Sounds good,” I say instead, watching her tap on the screen of her phone with those ruby red talons. The more I get to know her, the more they seem like weapons rather than proof of a princess complex.
My phone vibrates in my pocket seconds later, and I pull it out to glance at the address. It’s not a street name I recognize, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.
She nods toward my truck. “Why don’t you turn it on. Then we’ll unhook and hit the road. The sooner we get going, the sooner we get done.”
“Oof.” I clutch my chest. “That eager to get rid of me, huh?”
Her responding chuckle warms me. She’s gorgeousandlikes my sense of humor? God, why couldn’t I have found her before I swore off women?
“Sure,” she says, though her tone doesn’t sound very believable. “We’ll go with that.” And she flashes me a grin that would normally have me asking for her number. Except I already have it. And instead of asking her on a date, I asked her to help me fix my car. Which she is, but it’s not exactly the kind of wining and dining I’m used to offering.
For a reason. I’m taking a break. I need to figure out how to recognize when a woman’s only using me for my money. And just because Marissa doesn’t seem interested in my money, I get the distinct feeling she doesn’t realize that’s something she could find interesting about me. And that’s part of why she’s helping me out.
I could—and probably should—let her know that I’m not hard up for cash. That I could afford to pay a mechanic if she weren’t offering to help me.
But I worry she’d change her mind. And then I wouldn’t have this excuse to spend time with her. Because at this point, that’s a hundred percent what I’m doing. I should’ve thanked her for her offer and then gotten a recommendation from Nick and had my car towed to a garage. There’s zero reason for me to be learning to change my own battery, except that I want to spend time with her. As much as I can until this excuse runs out. Because I can’t ask her on a date. I’m not dating, after all. And this feels like a gray area, where it’s definitely not a date and more of a friendly hangout.
And someone like Marissa?
She doesn’t get asked for friendly hangouts from random dudes. No, when dudes ask her out, they want to take her on a date.
My car starts right up on the first try, and Marissa unhooks her jumper cables and gives a little wave before lowering both our hoods and hopping in her car. I put the address into my preferred GPS app but wait for her to pull out so I can follow her.
We arrive at her garage about twenty minutes later, and I pull into a parking spot next to hers. She rolls down her window and shouts something I can’t hear, so I lower the passenger window of my truck to hear her say, “Don’t turn off your car! I’m in number two-oh-five. Drive your car over there. You’ll be able to pull mostly in once I have it open.”
“Got it!” I wait while she climbs out of her car and locks it, tracking her progress with my eyes in the rearview mirror before backing out of the spot and following her as she disappears around a corner.
The garages are laid out neatly and logically, so it’s not hard to find her again even after losing sight of her, and I stop in front ofthe garage she said, waiting patiently for her to unlock and raise the door.
Inside, there’s a workbench along one wall, cabinet toolboxes next to it, an old looking car with the hood up and parts and towels neatly stacked beside it, waiting for her to come back and continue working on the car.
Like she said, there’s enough room for me to pull the front of my truck inside so my back end isn’t completely blocking the way for other cars to pass behind me.
Her smiling face appears in the passenger side window, then she opens the door. “Go ahead and turn it off then pop the hood for me.”
After doing as she says, I climb out of the cab and come around to stare blankly at the engine as though I know anything about what’s under the hood of my truck.
A giggle makes me look at her. Shaking her head, she holds up a hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you, but you look like a deer caught in the headlights. You really don’t know anything at all about cars?”
“My whole life has been all about hockey,” I answer slowly, still staring at the engine, looking for the battery. I find it, but there seems to be some stuff in the way. How much are we going to have to take apart to change the battery? “I never had the time to worry about car stuff. Wasn’t super interested, either.”
“Do you know how to change a tire?” She sounds equal parts curious and appalled.
