Page 3 of Fall Love
“Shit, Rosie.” Presently, I swipe a hand through my hair, certain Rosie is not her real name. She just looked like Rosie the Riveter that night, only sexier, with that midnight hair.
“Are you…” I choke over what I’m about to ask her next. “Are you Lumi Snowe?”
She tilts her head, while the stiff cup of a face mask rests at the crown like a maimed rhino horn. She wears mechanic overalls again, only this one is unsnapped to her waist with the sleeves tied just below her distended belly, further emphasizing her pregnancy.
How far along is she? The thought comes before I can stop it, automatic and detached, like I’m trying to solve something I have no business solving.
A brief, stupid flicker follows, wondering who the father is, and just as quickly, I shut that down.
None of my business.
Still, something tightens in my chest.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“Who wants to know?”
“Who wants to know what?” I already forgot I asked her a question, because this isn’t where or how I expected to find her, nor did I really think I would ever see her again.
The coastal towns around here are small and separated by inlets of water and the stretch of mountains toward the bay. I never imagined it’d be this easy to run into her again. Nor as complicated as this reunion is about to get.
“Tatum Love.” I extend my hand, but she only stares down at my offering. “Tate,” I further clarify. “Hessfield Holdings.” Real estate acquisitions.
The final explanation isn’t necessary. Lumi knows why I’m here. A hot tip told me this auto-repair garage is for sale. With a quick glance, the space is as dated on the inside as it is on the outside. Like someone was unaware the calendar flipped to the 2000s, with more than a quarter of a century gone. The place is neat and orderly but doesn’t look like it’s had a deep clean since it opened sixty years ago. The assessment might be a tad harsh, and not part of my reason for being here. If I have my way, this place will soon be gutted.
Realizing my hand is still extended, I lower it and notice the grease on her delicate fingers.
“Tate Love,” she repeats, her crystal-blue eyes wide. “As in the love part of Lovewell Landing?”
My face heats. My connection to the history of my hometown isn’t something I wish to discuss right now.
“Are you Lumi?” I ask again.
With a heavy sigh, she glances to the side. “No. I’m Neve.” She blows out a breath while meeting my eyes with the brightness of hers.
Mesmerizing.
“Neve Snowe,” she clarifies, running her hand over her belly. Something she must have done several times already today, because the white tee stretched over her stomach has a large smudge of grease on it. “I’m her sister.”
Her sister? Fuck.
“Should you be in here? With the fumes?” She is pregnant.
Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the open bay door. Instantly, I’m sidetracked by the striking view. The lull of September waves in the distance. The nostalgic lighthouse in the periphery. Only a curvy strip of road between here and the water.
The location is perfect.
“That’s why I have the door open.”
I twist to face her again. That mask is still on her head. Grease paints her cheek. She’s a mess, and as cute as I remember.
“So, Neve. Is Lumi available?”
Her shoulders stiffen. She stands straighter while assessing my suit with narrowed eyes. “She isn’t. Is there something I can help you with?”
Gone is the flirty woman from NYE, teasing me about tailpipes and pistons. Cylinders and revving engines. All sexual euphemisms that had me smiling like I haven’t smiled in years.
“Neve,” I repeat, searching my memory for details about the four partners who own Rusty’s Wrecks. Four sisters who inherited the place when their father died. Each was a quarter owner, where one slice wasn’t happy to sell.
