If I Fix You. Abigail Johnson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ do when they aren’t Mustangs, which we also have in the shop today.” I tapped it on the board. “You haven’t even assigned it to anyone, unless you hired...” I squinted at the tiny figure Dad had drawn. “The devil in a golf cart without telling me?”

      Dad straightened. “That’s a speed demon.” He was always drawing little figures, leftovers from when he wanted to be a cartoonist.

      I leaned closer. “That’s actually pretty good, but seriously, where are we on the Mustang?”

      “The Mustang isn’t a rush, but I tell you what. The toilet is backed up, so if you’d rather I start on bleeding the cooling system on the Acura, we can swap.”

      I slumped forward on the counter and rested my chin on my hands. “Do you ever worry about spoiling me with such a glamorous life?”

      Dad laughed long and hard and reached out to rub my cheek with his thumb to show me a smear of grease that I’d somehow managed to get on my face already. He had the most contagious laugh.

      “You want the Mustang?” he asked.

      “Yes, please.”

      “And what do I get?”

      “I’ll close tonight so you can catch the game.”

      “What game?”

      “I don’t know. Some team somewhere is playing a game on TV. That one.”

      Dad made a big show of caving. “All right. You can drive the new flip home.”

      “The truck?” Oh, sweetness. The Mustang and he was going to let me drive the truck! I was doing a decent moonwalk over to grab the keys when Dad nodded his chin toward the back of the garage.

      “Try again.”

      We always had a car or two in the shop that Dad got cheap at auction or online. The newest flip was an ugly-as-sin Mazda that had decent guts but needed serious cosmetic work. It was the kind of car that turned heads—just not in a good way.

      Dad cued up more Hall & Oates, forcing me to yell over the music.

      “How about I stay late dutifully clearing out the storage closet, while you take the Mazda and leave me the truck?”

      Dad’s answer was to smile and turn up the stereo as “I Can’t Go for That” started playing.

      * * *

      After Dad left, I reclaimed the stereo and spent way too much time trying to decide if I was cheating on my imaginary Spitfire when I called the Mustang baby. I was fairly certain I was in the clear when I heard something worse than the din of “Rich Girl” blaring through the garage: the unmistakable grinding screech of Neighbor Guy’s Jeep.

      I shot out on my creeper so fast I nearly took out a tool chest. I spared a glare at the Mustang for completely eclipsing last night’s nocturnal activities from my mind, then grabbed a rag to clean my hands before hurrying to the front office.

      My steps slowed when Claire’s comments from that morning reemerged alongside the knowledge that I was alone in the shop. I hadn’t been scared last night, but Dad had been a shout away and there’d been a wall between us. What if I had glossed over Neighbor Guy’s potential danger because of my messed-up relationship with my mom?

      Stupid Claire. Stupid Mustang.

      Stupid me?

      My sneakers squeaked loudly on the checkered linoleum as I crossed to the counter, but when the door chimed, admitting him, any lingering trepidation flitted away.

      My first thought when I saw him was that it was actually possible for some people to look good in fluorescent light. Not Sean I-descended-from-Olympus good, more I’m-definitely-not-going-to-strangle-you-and-look-how-well-I-fill-out-this-T-shirt good.

      I smiled; Neighbor Guy did not.

      “What are you, like, the only girl in this city?” His dark eyebrows drew together. “Do you actually work here, or is this some kind of stalking game you’re playing?”

      Blood rushed to my face and my jaw jutted forward. A litany of profane words in the most offensive combinations my short-circuiting brain could think of slammed into the back of my teeth. It was only respect for Dad and his shop that kept me from freeing them.

      “Nice seeing you again too. I’m Jill, and this is my dad’s shop. I’m the one who left the coupon on your Jeep so you wouldn’t end up wrapped around a streetlamp when your brakes went out, but yeah, it was mostly so I could stalk you.” I might have let one totally non-customer-sensitive word slip after that.

      He didn’t respond. At. All. I shook my head and leaned over the counter to grab the coupon he was holding, but he jerked it back. I placed both hands on the counter. “Look, I’ve got other people to stalk today.”

      He rotated his jaw and looked fractionally less like a condescending jerk when he said, “Can I take back the stalking comment? I didn’t expect to run into you. Again. You’re kind of everywhere.”

      “Yeah, my house, my work—that is everywhere.”

      His hands mirrored mine on the other side of the counter, flattening the coupon between us. “How was I supposed to know you were the one who left this?”

      I unzipped the top of my coveralls. Underneath I was wearing one of the many Jim’s Auto Shop T-shirts that I owned. It was identical, if in slightly better condition, to the one I’d worn on my roof. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.” I pulled the coupon from under his hand, brushing his skin in the process, flipped it over and read aloud what I’d written. “‘Free brake pad replacement. Welcome to the neighborhood.’” I looked up in time to see a ghost of a smile on his face.

      “Yeah, I, ah, didn’t notice what the shirt said before.”

      I could feel myself turning the same shade of red as my T-shirt. I vividly remembered his eyes passing over me last night. Not for reading purposes, apparently. I gave in to the impulse to zip my coveralls back up.

      “Look, I’m sorry. You caught me off guard...Jill.” He focused on my name stitched onto my coveralls. “I’m Daniel. Or did you overhear that from your roof?”

      I could tell he was trying for a less hostile tone, and I decided I could do the same, since I was more embarrassed than offended at that point. “No.” My eyes dropped to the bandage on his left hand. He’d wrapped his knuckles, but there were still raw-looking abrasions visible below the gauze. I forgot about him checking me out. “Is it broken?”

      The smallest shrug. “It’s fine.”

      “Are you sure?” I stepped out from behind the counter. “Did you get an X-ray? It might be—”

      “I know what broken bones feel like. It’s fine.”

      I was about a foot away from him, my hand still outstretched toward his injured one. I was totally in his personal space, close enough to see a sliver of a scar in his right eyebrow and catch something lemony/minty coming off him. It made me want to lean in. Instead, I looked away, СКАЧАТЬ