offer of help. Yes, he’s a jerk, but now I’ve resigned myself to an afternoon of dealing with car troubles I can’t afford.
Sweat beads on my forehead as the sun blares from above. I fish my phone out of my pocket just as a gray hatchback pulls up right in front of my car, the silver bumper just a foot from the scuffed fender of my Honda Civic.
When Callum climbs out of the driver’s seat, my jaw drops. He pops the hood open, then nods at me. “Open the bonnet of your car for me, please. Now.”
“Bonnet?”
“Hood. The hood of your car.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to help you.”
The muscles in my neck ease from their tension knot at the same time as my heart races. His voice takes a soft yet authoritative tone. I would never, ever admit this out loud, but that tone is killer—sexy, even. It’s the perfect balance of commanding yet polite. I bet he could compel a fish to walk if he spoke in that tone. If he had used it when we first met, I would have been a lot more receptive to whatever he had to say.
I’m tempted to ask why again, but that would be risking my luck. This is a second chance to solve my problem with minimal fuss. I had better take it.
I stay silent and stand to the side, watching while he darts in his back seat to grab jumper cables. He doesn’t ask me to help him as he sets everything up between our two cars or when he sits back in his vehicle and starts the engine. I don’t offer either. I simply stand back, lean on my driver’s side door, and watch him work. No matter how artificial this gesture is, I need it. And Callum knows it.
I cross my arms over my chest, momentarily self-conscious, wondering if he can smell my desperation. It’s obvious judging by how quickly he picked up on my financial situation at the vet’s office that he’s been paying attention while we’ve been working in such close proximity. For one or two days a week it’s just me at the food truck, because even though I’m a stickler on Mom’s days off, we can’t afford to hire anyone else, not even part-time. Our truck squeaks to a halt every time we pull up to our spot on Makena, a signal that we’re in desperate need of new brake pads. The exterior is dingy on a good day. The white paint is peeling off, the painted-on images are fading, and there are dings and scratches galore.
I glance down at my outfit. A blue T-shirt dress that I’ve had for years. Not at all dumpy—more like well loved. And I wear it once a week, which means Callum has seen me in it many times before.
I’m flushed with embarrassment yet again. I’m like a humpback whale, but instead of a sonar distress call, my cry for help is my worn clothing and the rickety state of my belongings.
Fixing my eyes on him, I take stock. He’s a casual clothes guy for sure. I’ve never seen him wear anything other than jeans, khaki shorts, T-shirts, and the occasional short-sleeve button-up. But they always look new, and I don’t think I’ve seen him repeat an outfit yet. And that silver food truck he shares with his brother looks practically brand-new the way it shines like a seashell in the sunlight. Whatever finance job Callum had must have paid a pretty penny for him to drop everything and move to the state of Hawaii, one of the most expensive places you could choose to live in the US, so he could rehab his brother’s struggling small business.
Maybe Finn had money troubles before, but his big brother has seemed to make them all disappear.
He sticks his head out the window. “Now try it,” he says in that same gentle yet firm tone, pulling me back to the present.
Hopping into my car, I shove the key in the ignition and turn it. The second it starts, I’m positively giddy with relief. The fact that it started so quickly means that my battery is still good, at least for a little while longer, and I won’t have to replace the alternator. Instinctively, I almost grin up at him, but I catch myself. He already made it clear today he’s not interested in seeing my smile.
I take a second and will my face back to neutral before stepping out of the car.