Drive Me Wild - Melanie Harlow Page 0,73
off.
No, that wasn’t true. I did know how—I just wasn’t strong enough to do it.
I was still brooding about it when McIntyre came in around eight. “Hey, did that trailer hitch kit for the Jeep come in yet? I need to get that done this morning. It’s for Emily’s brother.”
“I haven’t seen it, but it’s possible. We’ve had several deliveries this week. Check the back.”
He wandered toward the back, and I didn’t see him for a while. I figured he’d found the hitch and was installing it on the Jeep outside, but about thirty minutes later, he approached me and stood there without saying anything.
“Find the hitch?” I asked from beneath the hood of a Nissan.
“No.” He paused. “But I did find the parts for Blair’s car. The packing slip said they arrived Monday.”
I froze. Didn’t look up.
“Did you know they were there all week?”
I continued tightening a bolt. “Yeah.”
“Uh, so what gives? Why didn’t you do the repair job?”
I straightened up and looked at him. “I haven’t had time.”
He gave me an odd look. “Do you want me to do it?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’ll do it. I want to look everything over myself. Make sure it’s safe.”
“Okay.” He scratched his head. Something wasn’t sitting right with him, I could tell.
“I just want to surprise her, that’s all. She doesn’t know they came in, and I thought it would be fun to surprise her once the work is all done. So don’t say anything to her, okay?”
“I won’t say a word.”
I went back to what I was doing, but I couldn’t fucking concentrate to save my life.
McIntyre was silent the rest of the morning too.
I felt like he saw right through me.
The entire ride north, Blair kept up a steady stream of excited chatter, expressing her gut feeling that she and Frannie MacAllister were going to hit it off, fretting about finding a place to live she could afford, and hoping when the day was over she’d be able to call her mother and tell her she’d been wrong.
“I just feel like if this job comes through, that will finally be the thing I need to feel one hundred percent confident,” she said. “Like all the pieces will start falling into place.”
“What are the other pieces?” I asked.
“Well, I have a one-year plan, a five-year plan, and a ten-year.”
“Let’s start with the one.”
“Okay, in one year I want to seriously reduce my personal debt and be in a position to apply for a small business loan so I can start looking for my own space.”
So she was going to spend the next year working her ass off. She wouldn’t have time for me anyway.
“How about in five years?” I asked.
“In five years, I’d like my business to be up and running. I’d like to be in my own home, married to a handsome prince, maybe even with a baby or two.”
Even better. There was no way in hell I was that guy.
I gripped the steering wheel a little harder. “And in ten years?”
“In ten years, I’ll be celebrating my fortieth birthday. And honestly, all I want is to look around at my life and be grateful for everything I have. Which is, I hope, a comfortable home, a happy family, good friends, a successful business, and some wisdom to pass on to my kids along with my recipes.”
“Sounds good,” I said, wishing I knew who this handsome prince was she planned to marry so I could find him and kick his ass.
“What about you?” she asked, shifting to face me on the passenger seat. “Where do you see yourself in a year?”
I shrugged. “At the garage, listening to McIntyre complain about his wife and busting Handme’s ass to stack the tires.”
She laughed. “How about in five years?”
“Let’s see. In five years, I’ll be thirty-seven. I hope I still have six-pack abs and a good throwing arm.”
“And in ten?”
Ten years. Fuck, I’d be forty-two.
Would I still live in my apartment? Would Moretti be married with nine kids? Would Mariah be out of high school? Would Beckett still be able to hit home runs over the left field fence?
What about my mother? Would she still be around? Would Cheyenne finally get married and give her some grandchildren? Would we all get together for Sunday dinners and talk about Dad and the old days and how much trouble I used to be?
I could picture everyone at the table—my mom, Cheyenne and whatever clown agreed to marry her, a bunch of their rug