Page 8 of The Pucker and the Princess
He sighs at my non-response. “I’m just … I’ve been in a weird headspace. And I took it out on you. It was wrong of me. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ll understand if you keep slamming the door in my face in revenge.”
A laugh slips out at his last words, and I don’t bother hiding my grin. “I might. It’s pretty fun.”
He returns my grin with one of his own, and he’s even cuter when he smiles, which really isn’t fair. Even if I previously thought that since he’s a dick, he should at least be nice to look at, it’s not fair for him to betoonice to look at. There should be limits on that sort of thing.
“Well, I guess I can’t blame you,” he says, then glances at his car, his brow creasing again. “Do you think it’ll start soon?”
“Oh! Right. Yeah. Why don’t you see if it turns on. You’ll want to let it run for a few minutes, though, so the battery gets some charge.”
Nodding absently, he climbs into the driver’s seat, and a few seconds later, his car splutters to life. He gives me a triumphant grin through the windshield, which I return before setting about disconnecting the jumper cables.
He hops out of the car and stands next to me as I lower my hood. Turning to face him, I stuff my hands back in my hoodie pocket, not sure what to do with him standing so close.
Then it occurs to me. “Oh! Hang on.” I do an awkward hop backward and reach into my car, rifling through the center console for one of my business cards.
“Here,” I say, handing it to him. “Give me a call if your battery dies again. There’s no need to waste a bunch of money on a garage when I can hook you up.”
His brow still furrowed, he studies the card, turns it over to glance at the back, then stares at the front some more.
I shift on my feet, pointing at the numbers listed. “The first one’s my office number, but the second one’s my cell. Call that one first.”
Still looking perplexed, he raises his eyes to mine. “Um, thanks?”
Flashing him a smile, I step back. “No problem.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go now. I hope you’re not too late to wherever you’re heading all dressed up like that.”
“A game,” he says still staring at my card, perplexed, the words sounding almost absent, seeming to leave him without thought. “Hockey game. Preseason.”
My eyebrows jump. “I knew hockey fans took the game seriously, but I guess I didn’t realize it was a Sunday best kind of affair.”
He barks out a laugh, shaking his head, finally seeming to come back to the present. “Not a fan. Or at least, not just a fan. I play for the Seattle Emeralds. It’s our first preseason game today.” Tucking my business card into his pocket, he pulls out his phone,and his eyes grow wide. “Shit, yeah. I gotta go or they’re gonna slice up my laces. Thanks so much for the jump. Hopefully I’ll see you around.”
And with that, he leaves me gaping at him as he finally closes the hood of his truck and climbs in. It’s only while we’re both sitting in our cars staring at each other through our windshields that I realize he’s waiting for me to leave because I’m blocking him in.
Giving him a sheepish grin, I wave once more, back up, and drive away.
I’m back home after spending a satisfying day working on my baby when my phone rings with an unknown number. Pursing my lips, I consider answering, but I’m in the middle of unpacking and organizing the last few boxes, and I don’t want to stop what I’m doing for a scammer, so I opt to let it go to voicemail. If it’s a real person who actually wants to talk to me, I can call them back.
After a moment, my phone alerts again, this time with a text message.
Hey, it’s Dozer. The guy you gave a jump to earlier? My car died again. I got a jump at the rink and made it home, but I have a feeling I need some help
Biting my lip, I read his message a few times, trying to decide how best to respond. Part of me wants to be snotty. I mean, I’vebeen slamming the door in his face every time I’ve seen him so far, so it seems fitting. But I did offer to help him today. And I gave him my card and told him to contact me if his battery needed more than just a jump, which is clearly where we find ourselves.
“Dozer,” I whisper, trying the name out. “What kind of parents name their kid that?”
Shaking my head, I decide to call him back instead of replying to his text. That way I can finish unpacking then break down these boxes and get rid of them.
He answers on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dozer?” Still sounds like a goofy name. “It’s Marissa. I got your text.”
He lets out a relieved exhale. “Yeah, hey. Thanks for calling me back.” There’s a long pause, but I don’t jump in to relieve the awkwardness. He called me. He can ask for what he needs.
“So, uh, you mentioned tools? And possibly being able to help?”
“Right. Yeah. I have a battery tester. I went to my garage today, and I brought it back with me. I can test your battery for you, and that’ll let you know if it’s bad, or if you’re going to need more serious work done.”
Another soft exhale. “That would be great. You sure you don’t mind?”
