Page 33 of Crash Course
"When did he die?"
"Almost twelve years ago."
"Did you work on the car with him?"
A guy who looked around thirty came by, smacking Cruz on the shoulder as he moved past.
"Hey, Jimmy," Cruz said. "Good to see you." He brought his attention back to her. "The Stutz? No. I didn’t help. It was his project. He wouldn’t let me near it."
Tragedy, that. She’d have thought any man would appreciate his son’s interest in his hobbies. "Why?"
He shrugged. "He didn’t trust me to not screw it up."
For a few seconds, Cilla sat, half stunned and not sure she’d heard him correctly over the crowd noise.
"Did you say . . .?"
"Yeah." Cruz nodded. "He didn’t trust me with it. It was rough back then. I suppose he had a point. I raced through everything. He’d always tell me that when I learned patience, I could work on the Stutz."
"Since the car is done, I guess you learned patience."
He blew out a long breath. "I sure did. Finding the parts alone can take months. But I finished it."
Cilla considered that. Her own father didn’t have hobbies. Other than making money and golf, of course, but golf, in her mind, didn’t count. He used a day at the club for business purposes more times than not.
"So, you’re a pilot and you rebuild cars. What else do you do?"
"Random shit. If something has wheels, I probably know about it. You like cars?"
"I suppose. Not like you, but I appreciate exceptional vehicles." She leaned in. "And people. I like exceptional people." She met his gaze and held it. "I think you may be one."
Oh,Cilla.Didn’t she just make his mind go straight to the sewer.
"Funny," Cruz said. "I was thinking the same about you."
"Lucky us."
She offered up a smug smile and leaned closer, propping her forearms on the table while Luke Bryan streamed through the speakers.
"I like it here." She scanned the room. "It reminds me of a barbecue place in Asheville. A friend of the family owns it. We grew up together."
"We should go one night."
She smiled at his casual mention of another dinner date. "I’d like that. I’ll call the owner, make us a reservation. The place has a monthlong waiting list."
For barbecue? Come on. "No shit."
"Truth. It’s eclectic. Interesting spins on everything. He’ll get us in."
"He must like you."
"It’s not about me. It’s about me telling my dad he got us in and then fussed over me. It’s a thing."
What the hell kind of thing couldthatbe? Sometimes, Cruz just didn’t understand people. "I’m not following."
She puckered her red-painted lips and—wow—the things he'd do with that mouth. Ooh-eee.
"My father," she said, "has certain expectations. People fussing over his daughter is one of them."
