Page 142 of Mr. Flirt

I picked it up and made my way over to the bed of the truck and put it in the back.

“Shirt,” she called out the open window.

I ignored her and smiled as I climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, bringing the old engine roaring to life.

“Your back is gonna stick to the seat, you know.” She wouldn’t look at me. “Just like it did when you were a teenager.”

Before pulling out of my uncle’s drive, I turned to look at Grace. “Would you mind telling me why you are obsessed with me putting my shirt back on? I’m a grown man doing yardwork for his ailing uncle. It’s hot as a skunk’s tail in summer, and if I remember correctly, I’m doing you a favor.” I chuckled and put the truck into reverse. “So, avert your eyes if the bare-chested man that I am offends you.”

As I got up to speed on the old country road, the wind blew through Grace’s beautiful auburn hair, and the smell of wild honeysuckle filled the truck’s cab.

“I assume you’re staying at Millie’s?” I asked.

“I am.” She kept her gaze out the window.

“I might have to grab some of her lemonade.”

“We drank it,” she said flatly, and I struggled to hold in my laughter.

“Are you always this pleasant?”

A smile brushed her beautiful lips, and she turned to see me as I slowed down, approaching Millie’s house.

“Fine. She’s probably made more by now. You’re more than welcome to come in and get some.”

I slowly pulled the truck into the driveway and saw Millie and a younger version of Grace wandering between the deer fencing where lush green leaves filled the air.

My heart froze.

Grace wasn’t here alone.

She had her family with her.

Tim?

“You know, I think I’ll take a raincheck on the lemonade.” I eyed Millie in the garden waving at us. “Let me just get you to the door and—”

“Um...” Grace looked uncomfortable. “If you only get me to the door, I might have to crawl the rest of the way, so...”

“Can’t...” I couldn’t say it. I didn’t want to bring up how Tim could carry her the rest of the way. But I was a gentleman. “Fine. Let me get your bike first.”

I climbed out of the truck and jogged around back and picked her bike up out of the truck bed before propping it against the porch. Millie was making her way over to us as I pulled Grace from the truck with her bum ankle and hundreds of superficial splinters.

Millie put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no. The bike?”

“I’m fine. I was just too hard on it.”

“Steve at the shop is going to hear about this.” Millie ground her lips together into a plethora of wrinkles and hot pink lipstick.

“It wasn’t his fault. I was forcing the cruiser to think it was a street bike,” Grace assured her. “I promise it’s not his fault.”

Millie eyed Grace’s ankle, which now had a slight purple tinge and swelling and no flip flop.

“Where should I put her?” I asked Millie, who motioned for me to follow her.

I saw the girl in the garden look over at us and scowl. She started to make her way to her mom, but she thought better of it, and a slippery smile seemed to cover her expression.

She must have wanted me to meet her father.

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