SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,3
got a flat.”
“What?” Without thinking, she turned off the engine and swung open her door to hop out of her car. He didn’t back off like he should have, so for a second she was standing way too close to him and she remembered that the top of her head came to his chin and that the notch of his throat was a convenient place on his person for her to kiss.
Shoving that thought away, she cheered when he took a step back so she could stomp over for a better look at her tire.
Flat.
“You didn’t notice?” he asked.
Truth to tell, she’d been rubbernecking as she drove, absorbed by the changes to downtown Sawyer Beach. The traffic made going slow a necessity, so she’d felt free to focus on the new stores and the old, familiar shops she remembered, aware that both types looked prosperous and well-patronized if the crowded sidewalks were any indication.
“I had my mind on something else,” she said. “I must have run over a nail.”
He was already rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, pristine and crisp. At this time of day. In this heat.
She’d teased him about his attention to sartorial detail. In another life, she’d told him, he’d be a valet like on Downton Abbey.
His only reply was to give her a look, one eyebrow raised, that sent a shiver down her spine. Like the lord of the manor was displeased with her and the stable girl would have to soften him up somehow to get back into his good graces.
She’d known how to soften him up.
“Do you have a jack?” he asked now.
Shaking herself free of memories, she reached in for her wallet, stuffed into the center console. “I have the auto club,” she said, already rifling through her plastic cards. “I don’t need to take up any more of your time.”
“It’s no problem.”
But he had a wife. Probably children. Her mom had only told her of his engagement years ago, but never shared if the union produced progeny. Likely, right? A sturdy boy with his dark eyes, or a little girl with strawberry-blonde ringlets like her mother.
At the thought, her fingers fumbled. Like a Vegas dealer with a case of the clumsies, the cards scattered to the blacktop. She bent and so did he, only barely escaping a bump of foreheads. When they both straightened, she had her driver’s license, the brow-shaping salon frequent client card, her sole credit card, and a bunch of school photos of former students.
Glancing at Mad, she saw he’d located her proof of auto club membership.
He held it up between two long fingers. “Expired.”
Defeat made her shoulders want to sag. When she’d fantasized about running into her first love again—which she’d allowed herself only as a rare indulgence—it was never while appearing bedraggled and broken-down.
Damn this moment. And damn him for looking so calm and collected.
Handsome.
Okay, sexy.
No.
Suppressing a scream of frustration, she squared her shoulders and forced her thoughts to the pressing matter at hand.
Getting away from him as soon as possible. And also no, those were not tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
“Never mind about the auto club,” she said, aiming for sounding practical. “In auto shop I learned how to change a tire, too.”
He pulled down his sunglasses, assessing her bare-eyed. She felt his gaze on her arms and then the rest of her. Don’t react. Her nerve endings refused to obey, however. Even as she didn’t move a muscle, they twitched and danced beneath her skin.
“You’ll never get the lug nuts off,” he said after a minute.
She spun in a circle, just resisting stamping her foot. “Look. There’s got to be a garage nearby—”
“Hold this.”
Before she could object, he shoved a tie in her hand. A tasteful mix of olive and gold stripes, it was warm and sleek and somehow smelled like him, a hint of spice and a touch of spray starch.
Yeah, that was familiar too.
Struggling not to strangle the length of fabric—or use it to strangle him—she stood by as he got into her trunk and located the jack and the spare. He made some disparaging noise as he examined the replacement tire, but then made quick work of removing the flat. As cars coming upon them slowed, she waved them on, grateful to have something else to do besides admiring the muscles at play beneath the shirt on his back, the flex of his heavy forearms, the nimble moves of his long fingers.