Page 118 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

“What is…” I breathe, shaking my head.

There are candles on the kitchen island, and the whole place smells

like warm vanilla that clashes wonderfully with a cranberry scent. It

fills the warm air and the dimmed light ambiance that has made this

kitchen and living room look better than they’ve ever looked before.

I sit on the edge of the countertop, my hands folded in my lap, when

he brings a little black zipper pouch over. I aim not to cry, my mind

landing back in the past when my father would fight fiberglass shards

out of his hands from working on cars all day. My mother would grab

her kit, in a black zipper bag, and help clear the sting of the shards in

his fingertips and knuckles.

Percy stands before me, pulling out the tweezers and fighting the tiny

glints of glass in my minor cuts. I bite my bottom lip to keep strong

and not look like a wimp, but it’s clearly harder than I imagined. I

fight back tears and keep my head down, my body taut and waiting

for the pain to stop while Percy plucks the glass out of my hands and

sets it down on the paper towel nearby.

“Can I ask you what he said, darling, that sent you into such a fit?”

Swallowing hard, I already feel so wounded about Ryan, but Percy

went through all the trouble of cleaning this place up. I should let

him know why everything erupted in the first place.

“He asked me for a favor. Well, not a favor. He’s paying for it.”

“Paying for what, exactly?” He works on my opposite hand, my right

hand finally free of the nagging glass chips. “What did he ask for?”

“He wants me to get one of the old classics I have in the back lot. It’s

nothing but Oldsmobiles and Pontiac frames out there that have died

and gone to car heaven. He wrote me a few checks to have me

repurpose it for their wedding. One of those vintage cars they drive

away in as a happy couple. I have a Chevrolet out there, though.

Might give them that.”

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