Page 47 of Broken Trails
She crosses her arms tighter, still hovering. “It’s making weird noises.”
“Yeah? That’s what they usually do when something’s wrong.”
Her lips twitch. “It’s doing this… clunky thing. Thought I’d bring it in before it turns into a full-blown catastrophe.”
Smart call. I take the keys from her outstretched hand and pop the bonnet. It takes all of thirty seconds to figure out the problem—a cracked timing belt and a water pump on its last leg.
“You’re lucky you got here. Wouldn’t have lasted another day on the road,” I mutter, head buried under the hood.
Straightening, I close it and step aside. I pull a cigarette from my pocket, stick it between my lips, and light up. The flicker of the flame catches in her sunglasses as she watches me, her mouth pulling into a faint grimace. She gives a slow shake of her head. It’s barely there, but I catch it.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” She tsks. “Smoking in a garage full of oil and… whatever else you’ve got lying around?”
I smirk around the cigarette. “Only if you plan on turning the place into a fireworks show.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “You should quit.”
I blow out a slow stream of smoke, glancing at her sidelong. “Okay, Mum. No worries.”
She exhales sharply, shifting her weight. “So, how long am I without it?”
I straighten. “Two, maybe three weeks. It’s a German car, so the parts have to be ordered straight from the supplier.”
She frowns. “Seriously? You can’t just order them from somewhere else?”
I arch a brow, rolling the cigarette between my teeth. “Do I look like I half-ass jobs here?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she folds her arms tighter, giving me that dead-on glare she’s perfected.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare you can borrow till then.”
“You have a habit of giving things to strangers?”
I smirk, already heading toward the side garage where we keep the spare cars. “Now, I wouldn’t call us strangers anymore, would you?”
She stays quiet, but her silence says more than words could. That jaw of hers ticks again, and I can’t tell if it’s because she hates accepting help, or because it’s me who’s offering it. I take one last drag, then flick the butt into the open rubbish bin instead of across the gravel. She’d definitely have something to say if I’d flicked it like I normally do.
“It’s business, not charity,” I add, flipping through the spare keys hanging on the hook. I return to where she’s standing, holding one up. “You’ll bring it back in one piece, and I’ll get your Merc running like new. Simple exchange.”
“Right.” She takes the keys from my hand, her fingers brushing mine for half a second before she pulls back like I burned her.
I nod toward the old silver Corolla parked out front. “That’s her. Not much to look at, but she’ll do the job.”
Zoe narrows her eyes at it. “That thing looks like it’s one pothole away from falling apart.”
“Maybe, but it’ll get you from A to B.”
She lets out a short huff, and her arms stay crossed, her back ramrod straight. She’s always so damn straight, like she’s holding herself together with sheer will. But I can see the tightness in her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping.
Or if she has, it hasn’t been peaceful. I’ve seen it before with my brother.
“Thanks,” she says eventually.
“My pleasure,” I murmur. “Just try not to kill her. She’s an old girl.”
That earns me a flat look, but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she turns and walks away. I stay where I am, watching her climb into the Corolla, wondering why the hell her silence settles in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
The truth is that there are plenty of strangers I’d never hand keys to.
