I swear to fuck, I’m not lying, but this woman actually laughs a sound that is almost a giggle. It’s got to be the most foreign sound to ever pass her lips. I would be less shocked if she started speaking a foreign language. But that sweet sound, throaty and deep, will be one I remember for the rest of my days, however many I get.
“I missed you too.” She ends her answering whisper in my ear with a sharp bite to my earlobe. And there’s my Erica, grinning as she pulls away. “I thought you were gonna come by later?” Her eyes glance at the truck behind her.
“I know, but I got done early and couldn’t wait to see you. Do what you need to. I can entertain myself.” She looks dubious but spins around and gets back to work. “See, I’m already entertained.” My eyes are locked on her ass, which is basically invisible in the baggy coveralls, but the middle finger she throws over her shoulder is can’t-miss.
We spend a couple of hours in companionable chatter while I sit at the shop desk. She works on that truck, Manuel is working on one of those dancing gerbil cube cars, and Reed alternates between glaring at me and puppy dog eyeing Erica. Oh, he works on another couple of cars too, but his eyeballs are getting more of a workout than anything, ping-ponging between Erica and me.
Erica’s head pops out from under the hood, and she goes to the door, leaning in to start the truck. It’s loud and growly, which seems to be what she’s looking for because she closes the hood and moves the truck out to the lot. When she comes back in, she leans over me to get an invoice. After a quick message to the truck’s owner, she gives me her full attention. “Lunch break?”
“Fuck, yes.” I don’t mean it to sound like I’m taking Erica upstairs for a lunchtime quickie, but I also don’t not-mean for it to sound like that.
Riiiip. Sorry, not sorry, Reed.
The immature shithead in me wants to give him a little wave as we go through the door into the breakroom, but I’m mature enough to keep my hands in my pockets and only throw a cocky smirk his way. As the door behind me closes, I hear his hissed, “Motherfucker.”
“What did you do?” Erica asks over her shoulder, not even bothering to pretend I didn’t earn that curse.
“Just smiling at watching your ass, that’s all.” Her harrumph says she doesn’t believe that at all, but it’s the set of her shoulders that I notice the most because they’re drawing up tight. I pull at her hand. “Hey, really . . . I’m not trying to make this harder on him for shits and giggles, but I still think it’s gonna be worse before it’s better. Maybe for both of you?”
She sighs, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms. Only weeks ago, I was tasting her here for the first time. It seems like ages ago. I could draw that map of her freckles blindfolded, can tell you where the gold flecks in her eyes appear when she sits in her favorite chair by the window at sunrise, and know her heart is pure goodness, which means it hurts her to hurt Reed. “You’re right, and I’ve been trying to talk you up so he knows I’ve moved on and that he should too. He’s just not getting it. Or he doesn’t want to get it, I guess.”
I step up to the stair she’s on, caging her in. “He will. In the meantime, he doesn’t matter. Let’s eat some lunch, Lil Bit.”
She nods and lets me lead her the rest of the way upstairs to her apartment. I wish we had time for that nooner I was teasing Reed with, but really, we need to eat so she can get back to work. It matters that she sets a good example and doesn’t take two-hour lunches she would never allow her employees to take.
We make sandwiches, dancing around each other in the tiny kitchen space like pros. They’re nothing fancy but good and filling, and we sit down at the two-seater table to eat.
“Did you get that part for Todd’s Challenger?” I ask her around a mouthful of food. Most girls would probably be disgusted. But Erica’s doing the same thing.
She shakes her head. “No, he texted me and said never mind. I don’t know what he’s doing instead—probably saw something on a forum of armchair mechanics.” Her eyes roll, and she huffs around the sandwich she’s chewing.
“Is that like an armchair quarterback? Guys who think they know their stuff but are just yelling from their recliners with their sixth beer in their Cheeto-crusted fingers?”
Erica points at me. “Just like that.”