“Yes. That was me,” I quickly say, seeking solace in my Honda as I lay my palms flat against its driver’s side door. I must have backed up amid staring.
Mr. Grouch throws his attention back to the other guy. “Who are you?” He appears unamused.
The tobacco chewing man lets out a grunt. “Just a concerned citizen being a gentleman and offering her my help, but it looks like my service is no longer needed.”
Like I wanted his help.
The stranger slinks away and gets into his truck, taking off much faster than when he got here. Once he’s out of sight, I’m pierced with a set of crystal blues again.
“Pop your trunk,” he orders, stalking toward the back of my car.
“My trunk?”
He sighs. “For your spare.”
Duh, Sora.
My key doesn’t hold any special button to open the trunk, so once my door is open, I bend over, trying not to flash this man, and search for the switch. Honestly, I have no idea where the thing is, and I don't want to appear brainless. I’m right outside the driver’s side door when the warm presence engulfs my back. I peer to the side, and in my peripheral, the tall tow truck guy leans over me. One hand braces the Honda's roof, the other on the door frame. He has me trapped and if I were to stand, I would seriously head butt tow man into the next universe.
I also really wish I knew his name so I can stop calling him tow man or Mr. Grouch.
He leans forward, reaching, arms almost touching when the trunk pops open, all feeling of warmth leaving my back. Then the sound of his work boots hitting the pavement grows faint.
About a minute later, he slams my trunk shut, allowing me to get a good look at his face again. “You don’t have a spare.”
We both seem to share the same tired and frustrated energy. This is the result of finding the old car online. I hadn’t really thought about checking if it had a spare.
“Huh,” I reply, faking my ignorance.
He grunts, stalking back to where I stand, and I huddle through the open door. He doesn’t frighten me in a murderous way anymore, but a girl can’t be too safe.
He runs a hand over the short beard that covers his sharp jaw. “I have to tow your car to my shop and get you a tire.”
Perfect.
“Oh.” I hug my middle as a small gust of wind blows by.
He eyes my legs for a split second before turning away and climbing his body into the front of his truck.
Is he leaving me?
He drives around and parks in front of my car and for about five minutes he does his thing before hooking the chain to it.
After he’s finished, he returns to his driver’s side door, opens it, but then pauses, eyeing me like I know what should be happening. “You have to ride with me.”
Right. Makes sense. At least he isn’t leaving me. But why would he do that, anyway? I mentally roll my eyes at myself. Oh, well. This should be fun and not remotely uncomfortable.
I need to boost myself up to get into the passenger side, where I take a quick nosey look around. I’ll admit I am a bit surprised when I find it clean, except for a couple of empty water bottles lying around. Normally, work vehicles are filthy. Another rude stereotype I picked up from my bastard stepfather. Not all such workers lacked cleanliness.
Neither of us speak during the ride. To be fair, what can we talk about? Ask him his favorite color? What kind of music does he listen to? Country? Alternative? He seems like a classic rock guy, in my opinion. Asking those types of questions doesn’t seem legal because he isn’t very personable.
The scent of cedar mixed with a rich pine invades the space and I’m not complaining. It’s manly and smells good. I wonder if it’s the soap he uses.
I rub my bare legs trying to get warmth back into them. It’s not quite Autumn, but tonight is chilly in Vermont. Mr. Grouch must have noticed because he reaches forward to turn on the heat.
Well, that’s nice of him.
I glance over and his presence makes the cab of the truck seem smaller. Besides the rattling of the chains behind us, there’s nothing but silence.
