Page 26 of Golden Touch
“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?” I hear myself ask.
He taps his thumbs on the wheel for a moment, thinking. “I worked for him for a few months after college, until we burst into a fireball. The last straw was when he humiliated me in the middle of the brewhouse. But even without the theatrics, I wouldn’t have lasted in the job. He was never going to listen to me.”
“Ouch.”
“I’ve had my job at BrewCo for over ten years, and he never misses a chance to tell me how poorly he thinks of the company.”
“I noticed that,” I murmur.
“He can think whatever he wants, right? But it’s just rude to put my job down all the time.”
“True.” We lapse into another thoughtful silence. And I realize I’m thinking about my pizza in the fridge and not worrying about Nash’s anger anymore.
“Son of a biscuit,” he says as the brewery comes into view. “The place is mobbed.”
I check the time. “Yeah, that’s normal. The tasting counter opens at two, but they get in line early. And aren’t you on the schedule to help out in there today?”
“Yeah. But it’s only twelve thirty!”
“You really haven’t been around here much,” I observe. “It’s always like this. Only the first hundred customers are guaranteed a four-pack.”
Nash shakes his head. “The grumpy old man got everythinghe wanted, yeah? He’s famous. You’d think they were giving away Taylor Swift tickets here.”
I’ve had that same thought many times—about the concert tickets. But I’m not so sure Mr. Giltmaker got everything he always wanted. In fact, I know he didn’t. To me, he seems like the loneliest man alive.
Nash grumbles under his breath as he navigates the busy parking lot. He pulls the car past the loading dock and parks beside the pumphouse.
“You should grab some lunch,” I tell him as I climb out of the car. “The counter shift starts early, because you’ll have to do some crowd control.”
He tosses me my keys. “Eh, lunch can wait. Thought I’d top up your oil first.”
“Come again?”
He pulls the bag from the backseat. He retrieves a bottle of motor oil and sets it on the hood. “Your car probably needs a complete oil change. But I’m in a hurry, and I don’t have my tools. So I’ll just top it up. Take me fifteen minutes.”
I look at the bottle, trying to make sense of this. “You bought oil for my car? Why?”
He gives me a look like I might be stupid. “Because the oil light is on, pussycat. Figured drivin’ it might be more fun if it didn’t burst into flames.”
“It wasn’t going toburst into flames.” I sound defensive, but I’m embarrassed. I’ve been too busy to learn basic car maintenance, and—I can’t explain this to Nash—I’m afraid to take the car to a garage. Razor knows an unholy number of mechanics, and it’s possible he has spies watching out for my vehicle.
Nash pops the hood and locates the dipstick. He pulls it out and squints at it. “You happen to have a funnel?” He snaps his fingers before I can tell him no. “Actually, never mind. I can use an empty plastic water bottle. I saw one on the floor of your car.”
My humiliation complete, I retrieve the discarded bottle from the car and hand it to him. Then I unlock the pumphouse and goinside. In the kitchen, I take a bowl of chili out of the refrigerator and put it in the microwave with an inverted plate on top.
A few minutes later, I pop outside again. Nash has removed his motorcycle jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms flex as he carefully adds oil to my engine. He stops whistling and turns his head suddenly, catching me staring. Slowly, his generous mouth forms a smile. “See something you like?”
“Thank you for doing that,” I force myself to say. “I, uh, made you a bowl of chili.”
His smile grows, and he chuckles lightly. “Aw, pussycat. It’s almost like you like me.” He recaps the empty oil bottle.
“I don’tlikeyou,” I lie. “I’m just feeding you so you can show up and help out Connor in the tasting room. He’s probably holding back the hordes on his own right now. And I don’t work in the tasting room.”
“How come?” After setting the empty oil bottle by an exterior trashcan, he follows me into my kitchen.
“Because I just don’t. I’m an introvert. It’s too people-y in there for me.”
He frowns. “If you say so. Hey—doesn’t this look great.” After washing his hands, he sits down in front of the chili.
