Page 89 of One Small Spark
His low voice is like a gentle wave, rocking my boat as I drift out to sea. I’m…maybe a little dazed from that kiss.
He smirks down at me, sparking my dignity back to life. I straighten but don’t quite manage to leave his arms.
“Goodnight, Callahan. I come in late tomorrow. Don’t park in my space.”
The man just smirks harder. My pulse races to a frenetic beat.
“You hate it when I don’t park in your space.”
I really do.
TWENTY-FIVE
SHEPHERD
This is worsethan I expected. Neglect is one thing, but mistreatment is something else entirely.
Several cardboard boxes are stacked on Wren’s bike. Not just tilting precariously between the handlebars and the wall, but resting on the seat, too. Her bicycle was hidden away among other forgotten items and became one with the garden variety garage junk.
Not to judge. The boxes could be filled with priceless artifacts. But the scrawl on the side of one that saysAugust’s baby toysmakes me doubt it.
“I should have pulled it out of here before you showed up.” Wren grabs the uppermost box off the stack to start a new pile next to the bike. The hem of her shirt lifts as she stretches, revealing a stripe of pale skin I want to explore. Her long-sleeve T-shirt today has a raccoon on it. This one says,Raise hell and eat trash.
I help her move the boxes out of the way. “This is a fascinating window into your world.”
The garage at her house is filled with the usual: boxes, garden tools, bins of Christmas lights. Some of it’s neat and tidy,but other sections are cluttered. Like the parts they use the most get their attention, and the rest fades into obscurity. Seems pretty normal.
“It’s not my world.” She leans over to tug the box on the handlebars out of position. “Tess is the sentimental one. This is all August’s baby crap.”
She’s trying to pretend she doesn’t care, but it’s impossible for her to say the word “August” without revealing her heart. Her soft spot for him is wider than an ocean. It’s endearing and simultaneously hits something unpleasant inside me that wants her to have a soft spot for me, too.
Because I’m apparently jealous of children now.
“You still have your old bike,” I point out. Surely, some of the other boxes in here belong to her, but I’m not low enough to go on a hunt for them. Yet.
“That’s because it’s too crummy to donate.” She steps back, hands on her hips, to stare at the fully revealed bicycle. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not the best.”
It’s a black Electra seven-speed. Grease and a few spots of rust mar the frame. The black fenders have been scraped up. The flat tires are brittle and the tubes inside are probably shot. The rubber handlebar grips are cracked and coming off, and the saddle is misshapen from being used as a storage shelf.
I can’t wait to get started.
“If we should just chuck it in the garbage can, you can tell me that. It won’t hurt my feelings. In fact, I might prefer it. Let’s do that now.” She grabs the seat as if she’s going to roll it off the nearest cliff.
I put one hand over hers to stop her. “It’s not garbage, Wren. I can do this.”
More to the point, I want to. Not just because of my impulse to restore it, but because it’s a small thing I can do forher. Her independence calls to me, but I want to take care of her, too.
She gazes up at me, dust motes dancing in the air between us. “It’s going to be so much work.”
“I like a challenge.” More than she realizes.
“And it’s all for free, apparently.” Her tiny frown indicates how she feels about that.
“I’m a generous man.” Currently trying not to think about all the things I’d like to give her.
She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. “You’re kind of insufferable sometimes.”
