Page 32 of Crash Course
Cruz made a strangling noise. "It’s not. Got an oil leak I can’t find. Driving me batshit."
"Did you check the soft points?"
"Please. Every freaking hose."
"What about trace dye with a UV light?"
Whatever this meant, Cruz’s shoulders drooped, his mouth right along with it.
"Trace dye. Dang. Should have thought of that." He clapped Reid on one of his massive biceps. "See, you’re not useless after all."
Reid shot him a faux grin. "Yeah. Okay. Let me know if you need me, the expert, to take care of it."
"Don’t start." Brynne gave her husband a shove. "I wanna see my babies before they go to sleep and you two might be here all night trading barbs."
Cruz and the big guy both cracked up, then exchanged a handshake. "Good night, guys." Cruz said. "Thanks for the tip, Reid."
After they said goodbyes, the couple made their way through the crowd just as a bus person wiped the table and gave them fresh silverware and napkins.
"Thanks, Jenny," Cruz told the young woman.
"Sure. Server will be right over."
When Cruz hit her with one of his panty-shredding smiles, Jenny’s gaze locked on him. Cilla observed the exchange with a sort of detached fascination. The effect Cruz had on females?
Magical.
And for the first time in a very long time, she wanted to explore what the magic man could do.
She slid into her chair, not bothering to complain when Cruz stepped behind and pushed it in for her. Southern gentlemen. My, my, my.
Cilla perused the menu, found the burger Cruz had recommended. The description alone sent her stomach into a victory wail.
Done. She closed the menu. "Burger," she announced. "I’m trying it."
Eyes on the menu, Cruz nodded. "You won’t be sorry. She’s got a pot roast special, though, that I might have to try."
Closing the menu, he set it on the table and leaned in, giving her his full attention.
"So," she said. "What’s a Stutz?"
"Oh, honey. Based on what you drive, you’d love it. It’s a 1971 Stutz Blackhawk."
He slid his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and held it up. On-screen, an oh-so-sexy gleaming black sports car with spoked wheels and whitewall tires, held Cilla captive. She totally wanted that car. She took the phone, zoomed in. Red seats. Just wicked.
"Oh my gosh," she said. "Spectacular. It’s yours?"
"Yeah. Well, I inherited it from my dad. The Stutz was his dream car. Elvis had one. Back in the day, if you had a Stutz, you were living large. We could never afford one, but my dad loved them."
She handed the phone back. "I can see why. It’s so sleek and . . . well . . . seventies."
"Yeah. I think, for him, it represented a certain status he figured he’d never reach. The year before he died, he found a rusted-out frame somewhere in Georgia. He hitched a trailer to his truck, drove down there, bought it, and hauled it home."
"He wanted to rebuild it?"
"Yeah. He started but didn’t get far before he got sick. I finished it."
Cruz lowered the phone, slipped it back into his pocket and focused on her again, his eyes a little sad. Here she was, moaning about her father when Cruz had lost his and clearly still felt the rawness of that loss.
