Page 20 of Story of My Life
“Midlife crisis. I take it you live here?”
“Nah. I’m just real good at guessing names,” he teased.
I felt my face doing something funny. I was smiling. At a man. I hoped it looked like a real smile and not one of those drooling grimaces after a trip to the dentist.
“Well, I appreciate the mediation,” I said.
“It’s a pleasure. And nothing would make my day brighter than you letting me move your car.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.
“I can recognize a smart, strong, independent woman when I see one. And I am by no means making any statement about any gender’s ability to drive. But my highly developed observational skills are suggesting you might not be as experienced behind the wheel as I am. You also look like the kind of person who appreciates efficiency and the least amount of legal troubles possible.”
Oh, he was good. Very good. I could absolutely imagine him riding to a heroine’s rescue on the page.
I studied him. “This might be close enough to the truth,” I admitted.
“There are times and places to learn how to maneuver gas stations. And unfortunately for you, this isn’t either one of them.”
“You’re just hoping I’ll move on without driving into any more of your neighbors.” Was I actually using the potential for vehicular manslaughter as a way to flirt? I wasn’t just rusty. I was rotting in a flirtation junkyard.
“There is that,” he agreed with another easy smile.
“Fine. But let the record show that I could have figured it out myself.”
Eventually, I added silently.
“I have no doubt. But think of the favor you’re doing me. I haven’t ridden to the aid of a beautiful stranger all week.”
“Wow. Does that line usually work?”
“You’ll have to tell me after I impress you with my driving skills.”
“By all means,” I said, opening an arm and gesturing at my rental.
He had to move my seat back all the way to accommodate those long denim-clad legs. It took him less than fifteen seconds and two efficient turns of the wheel to have the car straightened out against the pump and the gas door open with a button I never would have found under the dash.
Before getting out, my hero squinted up at the sun and then back down at the dash. He pushed another button, and the convertible top released. “Too nice of a day for the roof. Might as well enjoy the sun while we’ve got it.”
Hmm, presumptuous, but also not wrong.
He shut off the engine and climbed out. “Well?”
“Can confirm. The line combined with the driving skill works. If I were looking for a small-town attorney to flirt with, you’d be at the top of the list,” I assured him.
“My mama raised me to be too polite and gentlemanly to say, ‘I told you so,’” he said, handing me the keys.
“I always liked that about you.”
His grin went straight to my chest. “Now, do you want me to pump your gas, or do you think you can handle it without causing any explosions?”
“I think I can handle it from here,” I said.
“All right now. I’m gonna go buy Ms. Patsy that scratcher. Don’t use the green handle pump. It’s diesel. You’ll just end up sitting on the side of the road.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured him.
“Nice meetin’ you, Big City.”
