Page 8 of Desired By Diesel
Too late. Already there.
"You heading to work?" I ask.
"Yeah. New job. First day was supposed to be Monday, but they called and asked if I could come in today for orientation." She shrugs. "Couldn't say no."
"What do you do?"
"Office manager for a physical therapy clinic. Nothing exciting, but it pays the bills."
"Nothing wrong with that."
She nods, and there's a pause. The kind of pause where neither of us quite knows what to say next, but neither of us wants to walk away either.
"So," she says. "Diesel. How'd you get the name?"
I consider the question. The real answer involves a convoy, a broken-down truck, and a field repair that saved three lives. But that's not a story for a Thursday morning in a driveway.
"Used to work on engines a lot," I say. "It stuck."
"Ah." She tilts her head. "Military?"
I pause. "What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. The way you carry yourself, maybe." She shrugs again. "My brother was in the Marines. He's got the same... thing. I can't explain it."
"Army," I say. "Few years back."
"Thank you for your service."
I nod. It's what people say. They mean well. I've learned to accept it without explaining that service isn't always something you want to be thanked for.
"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move. "I'm going to be late."
"Yeah. You should go."
She laughs — soft, a little surprised. "You're not very good at small talk, are you?"
"No."
"I kind of like that." She catches herself, cheeks going pink again. "I mean — not like — I just meant?—"
"I know what you meant."
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. "Okay. I'm leaving now. For real."
"Drive safe."
She gets in her car and backs out of the driveway. I watch her go — watch the way she glances at me one more time in the rearview mirror before she turns the corner.
Fifteen years, I remind myself. She's got a kid. She's got an ex-problem. You're too old for this.
But I'm already thinking about the way her ass looked in those jeans. Already replaying the way she said I kind of like that with her cheeks going pink.
And that night, when the black BMW shows up again, I take pictures.
Time, date, license plate, location. Evidence. Because when Ryan Mercer finally makes his move, I'm going to be ready.
And he's not going to like what he finds.
