Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
“Um...no, you don’t need to do that. I’ll call for a tow.”
I can practically feel my dick shriveling up inside me. I’m a man. I’m supposed to know shit about cars. She nods at the kid and he opens my driver’s side door and pushes the handle that opens the hood. What’s happening here?
Tess props the hood open with the rod and the kid joins her at the front of the car. I walk up behind them, still hoping to salvage a shred of my manhood.
“It’s really not a big deal. I mostly just stopped to get some fresh air.”
“Is it driving weird?” she asks, ignoring me. “Does it feel like the engine is working harder than the car is driving?”
I furrow my brow, wondering how she can possibly know that.
“Yeah, it’s doing that,” I admit.
She nods and looks at the kid. “I’m ninety-five percent sure this is a transmission fluid leak. How would you check that?”
The boy looks around and shakes his head. “No idea.”
“Because this car doesn’t have a dipstick,” she supplies. “You have to be underneath it to check the fluid.”
It’s me. I’m the dipstick. It’s not as much fun wisecracking when the joke’s on me, though.
“So what do we do?” the kid asks.
“There’s nothing we can do at the moment.” Tess stands up straight and looks at me. “Sorry I couldn’t do more to get you going.”
“Thanks for trying,” I mutter, shifting from foot to foot in my impatience to get back on the road.
She seems to read my mind, a little wrinkle forming between her brows. “Hey, I wouldn’t drive it any farther. You could do some serious damage to your transmission.”
Shit. I’m already late and this is going to set me back even more. I can’t miss the morning skate.
“You said fluid, though. Can’t I just add some fluid and get it looked at later?”
“Do you have a bottle of transmission fluid in your car right now?” Her amused voice sets my teeth on edge.
“No,” I snap. “But I’ve only got a few more miles to go. I’m willing to risk it.”
“Guess that’s up to you, but I wouldn’t.” She unlatches the rod holding up the hood, returns it to its place and closes the hood.
Fuck this day. First Lauren and now this.
“Okay. I’ll call for a tow truck.”
I’m typing into my phone to locate one when the kid trips over nothing and falls on top of me. There’s no one more awkward than a teenage boy.
“Oh, shit. Sorry,” he mutters.
He doesn’t weigh enough to knock me over. I return him to a standing position. “You good?”
“Yeah, I just lost my footing.”
“Let’s go, Zee,” Tess says. “I can’t be late.”
I can’t let this emerald-eyed beauty slip through my fingers, so I call after her. “Hey, let me do something to thank you for stopping.”
She waves at me over her shoulder. “That’s okay.”
“Seriously. You like hockey?”
“Nope!”
She and the kid get in the van and merge into traffic, not even glancing at me as they depart in their minivan with faux wood panels running around its center. That shit is old.
Is that her kid? How does she know so much about cars? Did she reject me because I smell like puke? I’m staring after her when a text comes to my phone.
Coach Maddox: You better be dead. I can’t think of any other legitimate reason for you to not be here at almost nine a.m. on a game day.
Chapter Two
Tess
* * *
“Thanks, sweet cheeks.” The diner customer winks at me as I clear away his dirty dishes, bacon grease and crumbs visible in his gray beard. When I glare at him, he huffs. “What? Is that offensive now, too?”
Like “sweet cheeks” was ever not offensive. Entitled customers are the worst part of this job, but I need to keep it, so I press my lips together instead of responding to him.
“I just might forget to tip you next time,” he mutters.
I’m not strong enough to ignore that comment. This guy orders the senior citizen coffee, bacon, egg and toast special every time he comes in. His total bill is always nine dollars and eighty-nine cents and he tips me fifteen percent, which is one dollar and forty-eight cents.
“That’ll hit my budget hard,” I say flatly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
He sniffs. “You can top off my coffee one more time.”
Oh, can I? Really? I hold my tongue, but I’m inwardly flipping him off as I walk over to the coffee station and grab the oldest pot from a burner. I like most of the customers here, but there are a few I wouldn’t miss if they never came back.
“Tess, can you cover the bar for me?” The owner of the diner, Deb, gives me an imploring look.
I can tell what time of day it is by how Deb looks. A few frizzy silver curls have escaped her ponytail and her eyeliner is smudged—it’s her post-lunch rush vibe.