Page 54 of First-Time Caller
His eyebrows jump up. “No?”
Dan will probably murder me, but it’s a no. I can’t. I refuse to put something as abrasive as underglow on the undercarriage of a vintage Chevy. I won’t do it.
“What color were you thinking?”
“Blue,” he answers immediately.
“What color is your truck?”
“Red.”
I make a distressed sound. God, what an absolute atrocity. I rip the intake form off the top of the clipboard and crumple it into a ball.
“We won’t take your car here. I can refer you to another shop in the city, but just so you know, what you’re doing is an insult to historic vehicles and you should be deeply ashamed of yourself.”
He uncrosses his arms and props one palm against the front desk. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I tell myself to leave it at that, to let it go, but I can’t. Maybe Aiden’s surly attitude is rubbing off on me, or maybe I’ve hit my breaking point for the day. I don’t know. “A vintageChevy,” I continue. “Why do you even care if we service historic vehicles if you’re just going to desecrate it with an underglow? Ablueunderglow on aredChevy. You should be reported to some sort of vintage car police. You should—what? What are you smiling at? Is this funny to you?”
“Nah.” He rubs his palm across his grin, but it only spreads farther. His whole face changes when he smiles. He looks softer. Younger. Handsome, even. “Shit, I think I just fell in love.”
I blink at him. “With what?”
“I’ve been looking for somewhere to take my car—my Rosie— for weeks. I’m new to town and you’re the first shop to refuse to put underglow on her. Thanks, by the way.”
I blink some more. “Uh, you’re welcome?”
He nods at the clipboard I tossed on the other side of the desk. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d love it if you could look after my girl.” At my blank look, he continues. “My truck. She needs some routine maintenance and she’s got a few other aches and pains too. I want you to do it if you have the availability.”
I reach for the clipboard, flustered. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone before and had them enjoy it. No one’s ever requested me specifically for their car either. “Um, my schedule is booked for the rest of the week and most of next too, but I’m sure we could move some things around.”
“I’ll wait,” he says easily. “You’re worth it.”
He gives me a quick wink and something flutters in my chest. Not quite butterflies, but almost. Something. A flicker.
“Just to be clear, you don’t want the underglow, right?”
He laughs. “Yeah, no. I don’t want to get arrested by the vintage car police.”
I grab a pen and another sheet, biting my bottom lip against my smile. I should probably be insulted he decided to test me, but I’m sort of . . . charmed? I start filling out the form again. “All right. Let’s see when we can fit your girl in.”
Harvey, Angelo, and Dan write their choices in chicken scratch on the back of a grease-stained inventory list for spare parts while I finish the intake on Chevy Guy. Maya adds her thoughts and Mateo makes an Excel spreadsheet that he shares with the whole family as soon as I get home, rating text messages by three scoring criteria and averaging out the number. Patty tells me I should start asking for dick sizes, then walks that back when she theorizes that most men will probably lie about that anyway. Grayson refuses to give his opinion at all, saying it’s my choice and my choice alone. I give him a smacking kiss on the cheek for that while Maya and Mateo boo from the kitchen counter, tossing popcorn at us.
I’m still no closer to a decision by the time I’m sitting next to Aiden again, a pair of headphones tucked right behind my ears and the good coffee brewing in the pot. I’m staring a hole into the desktop while he sets up for the show, humming under his breath and mumbling about acoustics. There’s no lingering sign of the weirdness we parted on last time or acknowledgment of our late-night text messages.
“I think I’m going to pick a date,” I tell him abruptly. My voice sounds too loud in the room. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing the headphones properly yet. Aiden pauses and looks at me over his shoulder. His profile is cast in shadow, his headphones slung around his neck.
“A date,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“A date for what?”
What else would I do with a date? “For . . . dating,” I say.
His eyes squint; he looks confused.
“Stop looking at me like that. Isn’t that why I’m here?” I gesture around the studio. The faded posters on the wall and the handwritten sign by the clock that saysPLEASE SHUT YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME. Three guesses as to who put that one up.
