Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Nori
It’s been more than a week, and I can’t stop thinking about Dr. McBoxer Briefs with Sandra Fulsome. Which is ridiculous. I’ve got way more pressing issues to concern me—like trying to buy the shop. And yet, my brain keeps circling back to how chummy the two of them seemed. How pretty she looked in her sundress.
How many times she touched his arm.
It’s a real problem.
So why am I doing this to myself? Probably because I thought Cash was in a relationship with the woman from Vincenzo’s. Dr. Margaret Hanson. Maggie. So why would he meet Sandra at Serendipi-Tea? For all I know, he’s dating them both. I mean, the man is allowed to see more than one person at a time, as long as neither of them thinks they’re exclusive.
Either way, his status is none of my business. Still, if my neighbor’s a player, I?—
Nope. Still not your business, Nori.
Except I actually know Sandra. Shouldn’t I warn her?
She was head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and also on the prom court when I was a freshman. The student body elected her president for two straight years. She got a full-ride scholarship to UMass. Now she’s a physician’s assistant at Springs Memorial.
On second thought, I don’t need to worry about Sandra.
The woman’s clearly thriving.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting in a squeaky chair at Springs Central Bank waiting on a loan officer to render a verdict on my future. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The air is thick with the smell of toner. Across from me, Herb Donnelly hunches over his computer. He reminds me of Harry Potter’s uncle, except with bushier eyebrows.
“All right, Ms. Sinclair.” He stops tapping at his keyboard. “I was able to push your application through quickly as a favor to Ms. Baker.” He pauses for a wheeze, and I will myself not to sweat.
“Thank you so much.”
“Yes, of course.” He squints at me through wire-rimmed spectacles. “We’ve reviewed your personal financial information, and we are, in fact, able to approve you for a business loan.”
I almost leap from my chair, but I force my hands to stay folded in my lap. “Well. That’s … that’s wonderful news,” I say, keeping my tone extra-professional.
He peers at the computer again. “You and Ms. Baker agreed to a sales price of two hundred thousand dollars, is that right?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I concur with that current valuation of the business,” he says. “However …”
My stomach plummets to the cold linoleum floor.
I hate a poorly placed “however.”
“However what?” I gulp.
“Based on your personal tax returns, your bank statements, and your most recent credit report, we’re capping your loan at $190,000.” He sniffs. “Which means you’ve got a gap.”
“Oh.” My stomach starts digging through the linoleum straight into the earth’s crust.
“Under these circumstances,” he continues, “our borrowers typically make up the difference themselves.”
“I do have some savings,” I admit, but I sound like I’m being strangled. “I was counting on that to be a cushion, though.” You know, for silly things like rent. And food.
Opening a business completely broke is a recipe for failure. Again.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair.” He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses with a handkerchief. “Perhaps you have some assets you could liquidate.”
“Not exactly.” I force a tight smile, ignoring the increasing twist in my gut.
“Do you have access to any other funding sources?”
Funding sources. Like East. Nope. I can’t.
“Not really. No.”
“If it makes you feel any better, this situation is not uncommon.” Mr. Donnelly offers me a sympathetic throat clearing. “Closing costs, equipment appraisals, a host of other variables … they all add up.”
“I just thought …” My voice trails off.
You thought if you wanted it enough, you could make it happen.
“If you can come up with the extra ten thousand,” he goes on, “you’re in a solid position. It’s just a matter of making up the shortfall.”
Shortfall.
A word worse than panties.
I slump in my chair, the weight of the dollar amount pressing down on me. Compared to the total loan, ten thousand dollars doesn’t seem like all that much. But everything I have is either earmarked for living expenses or part of what I’d planned to invest in the business .
You could ask East for the extra.
No. I can’t. I won’t .
Mr. Donnelly pushes his clean spectacles back on. “If you need more time to gather the additional funds, we can hold our approval for the next thirty days. After that, you’ll need to reapply.”
“Great.” A guffaw bursts out of me. “So you’re saying I’ve got a month to sell a kidney.”
Mr. Donnelly chuckles. He probably has no idea if I’m joking.
Maybe I don’t either.
With a lump in my throat and less hope than I’ve had in a week, I careen out of the bank and head straight for Dorothy. That’s my car. She’s an old Lincoln Continental, and arguably the least cool vehicle in town. But I adore her with my whole, shortfall-en heart.
East and I found Dorothy at a used car lot in Worcester when I was armed with a fresh driver’s license and a job at the shop, but no vehicle to drive me there. She was already twenty years old at the time. A brilliant green—inside and out—just like the Emerald City. I climb into the safety of her well-worn interior, and heave a sigh.
If I could click my heels together three times, I’d wish to be teleported back to my apartment. I just want to throw on pajamas, pop some popcorn, and wait for Hayden to get home from the middle school’s spring concert. It’s the last one of the year, so I get that it’s important. But I need to debrief her on this latest disaster.
“There’s no place like home,” I say out loud. “Right, Dorothy?”
Easing the car out of the parking lot, I head north on Main Street, somehow managing to catch every red light as I make my way through downtown.
Figures .
I crank the volume up on the crackling radio station and roll the window down. Outside, the air is crisp and fresh. Clouds float across the evening sky. The scene would be lovely. Hopeful, even. If it weren’t for my shortfall.
And … the smell.
At first the scent is faint—kind of like the kitchen after you burn toast. But as I approach Oldford Park, smoke makes an appearance. Tiny wisps, curling out from under the hood. Within moments, Dorothy is a full-on smoke tornado, except in Massachusetts instead of Kansas.
I pull over to the side of the road as the engine hisses and spits. The smell is acrid now. Oily. A precursor to flames.
Speaking of which.
I’d better get out of the car before I’m incinerated. Grabbing my purse, I jump from the driver’s seat, straight into the plume of smoke. I don’t even have to pop the hood to know I won’t understand what’s happening under there. One thing I’m pretty sure of is that this is going to cost me. Big time. Like, you’ll-never-be-able-to-own-Serendipi-Tea big.
My ribs ache with frustration.
I let my roadside assistance membership expire last month because it was just an extra expense, so of course Dorothy chooses tonight to let me down. I mean, sure, she’s got about a gazillion miles on her, and I can’t remember the last time I had her oil changed. But she’s never given me any trouble before.
Could this day get any worse?
Hold on. Don’t answer that, Universe.
Tears sting at my eyes as I dig for my phone, weighing my limited options.
Hayden’s at the concert, and Keeley’s at a work dinner with Andrew. If I call my brother—even to ask his advice—he’ll want to swoop in to rescue me. Then I’ll be stuck waiting an hour and a half for him to drive here and lecture me about the importance of oil, at which point he’ll feel it’s necessary to mention—again—that I really should move closer to him and Becca. I can just picture him frowning at Dorothy’s smoking hood, and?—
Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, no.
Dr. Cash Briggs is roaring toward me like some kind of white knight in his enormous, gleaming man truck. He slows down, staring at me through the windshield, so I throw my hands up and wave at him frantically to move it along.
Just keep driving. Please keep driving.
“I’m fine!” I shout, even though—right now—I’m the furthest thing from fine. “Nothing to see here. I’ve got this!”
Cash makes it about twenty yards up the road before pulling over. Then he throws his truck into reverse, and backs up slowly until he’s directly in front of Dorothy. After hopping from his truck, he comes around the back in a pair of scrubs—naturally—and he pushes the long sleeves of the Henley he’s wearing underneath up to his elbows. This is another problem.
I’m a total sucker for forearms.
As he approaches me and Dorothy, her hood is still smoldering. Smoke leaks out along the edges. At least the engine hasn’t burst into flames. Yet.
“Rough night, huh?” He sounds so calm and in charge, I feel even more out of control than I already did.
“You could say that,” I admit over a garbled moan. “To be honest, the last couple of weeks have been a disaster.” I cut myself off, because I’m not about to complain about my money troubles to the effortlessly perfect Dr. Briggs.
“Yeah.” He runs a hand over his hair, and the muscles in his forearm flex. “You didn’t seem to be having a great time when I saw you at Vincenzo’s. ”
Right. In light of my exploding car, that miserable memory had escaped me.
“And then in the laundry room,” he adds.
Ugh. I’d managed to temporarily forget that mortifying moment too. My cheeks flame up. “Sorry if I was rude to you.” I don’t bother to specify when said rudeness might have occurred. “The whole situation was just kind of awkward.”
This admission is true about both nights.
“I just want to be sure we haven’t gotten off on the wrong foot.” He tips his beautiful doctor head.
“There isn’t a wrong foot here to get on,” I rush to say. “No right foot either. We’re all good.”
“All right.” He glances at the smoldering car. “Then … why didn’t you want me to stop?”
“Because this isn’t your problem,” I blurt. “And I don’t want to be a bother.”
Also you’ve seen my thong. And you date women who could be models.
Plural.
“Well, I’m off work now,” he says. “Nothing else to do the rest of the night. I’d be happy to help you.”
My chest goes tight. I’ve spent the past year trying to prove I can manage my life on my own. And in this moment, I can’t even manage my car. Forget getting off on the right foot. I just want to stand on my own two feet.
But he takes a step forward, ducking his head, until I’m forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are even prettier in the sunset. All blue-gray and concerned and fringed with lashes. I dip my chin and take in the lower half of his bare arms. Lean muscles. A web of veins. Smooth skin. Light dusting of hair.
Stop it, Nori.
This man almost certainly has a girlfriend. Or two. Doctor girlfriends. Doctor-model girlfriends. Either way, he should be off-limits .
He is so off-limits.
“I really don’t mind,” he says. His voice is soft and deep. “You’re my neighbor, after all.”
Neighbor. Right. That’s how Dr. Cash Briggs sees me. Not as a woman he might be interested in. Which is a good thing. So how come there’s a lump gathering in my throat?
“In that case”—I gulp—“maybe you could try to jumpstart Dorothy.”
He blinks. “Dorothy?”
I reach out and drag my fingers along the edge of her dusty sideview mirror. “That’s what I call her,” I say. “I’ve had her for a decade. She’s more than a car to me.”
He bobs his head. “Well, I’m no expert, but this doesn’t seem like a battery issue to me. I’m thinking Dorothy’s got more of an engine problem.” He nods to indicate the smoldering hood. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean no. Please do. Thank you.”
My heart squeezes as Cash proceeds after asking my permission. By contrast, I imagine Warren Snuze bragging about his mechanic skills, then swinging at my dilemma like a wrecking ball.
Thank goodness that date’s in the past. Forever. But my gratitude is short-lived because the minute Cash gets the hood up, even I know something’s terribly wrong.
He takes a step back, trying to avoid the white smoke pouring from … Is that the radiator? I have no idea. Besides the smoke, there are multiple kinds of fluid leaking around the interior. Some greenish and orangish stuff mixing with an oily black.
Probably oil, dummy .
The smell emanating from Dorothy is basically hot rubber and something else I can’t identify. Burning metal, maybe. Does metal burn? I don’t even know. Another low groan seeps out of me. “This looks bad, doesn’t it? ”
Cash blows out a long breath. “It doesn’t look good.” For a long moment, we both stare at my poor Dorothy. Then I drop my head in silent mourning. In the distance a dull rumble sounds, growing louder.
“Whoa,” Cash growls, then suddenly he’s got an arm around me, slamming my body to his rock-hard chest. Most of the air whooshes from my lungs at the same time a red convertible roars past us only a few feet from me. The tailwind blows hot air up my legs, lifting my skirt, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I only own one thong and I’m not wearing it tonight.
For a moment all I want to do is stay with my face pressed against Cash. He’s warm and big and safe.
Home.
The word pops into my head, and I leap away from him, heat rising in my throat. I barely know this man. And he’s unavailable. Dr. Cash Briggs is certainly not my home.
He drops his arms and takes a step back to give me some space. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just … that car was coming in fast and you were right on the edge of the road.”
“I know.” Tears gather in my eyes, but I quickly blink them back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be this emotional.” I swipe at my nose.
“It’s Dorothy. I get it.” He slides a wallet out of the back pocket of his scrubs. “I wish I could fix her for you, but I’ve got a roadside assistance account. I’ll call you a tow truck. Give you a ride home.”
“You don’t have to do?—”
“We’re neighbors, Nori. It’s okay.” We lock eyes, and he pauses, really looking at me. Seeing me. “The question is, are you okay?”
My whole body floods in a silent scream of an answer.
I AM ACTUALLY NOT OKAY.
Repairing Dorothy is probably going to cost a boatload. Maybe even two whole boats. And I still need to scrape up ten grand to make up the shortfall for my business loan. Meanwhile, Cash has no idea what money problems are. He’s a doctor who dates gorgeous women. He owns a big beautiful truck and has big beautiful eyes that are staring at me, and?—
“For the record,” he says, “it’s okay not to be okay.”
Ugh. Now he’s reading my mind. Like he genuinely wants to know how I’m doing, and he’s giving me an out if I’m actually not all right. Which is good, because in this moment I feel about as broken as this thirty-year-old Lincoln.
“Is your name really Cash?” I blurt.
He huffs out a small laugh, and for some reason the sound makes me feel a tiny bit better. “Yep. Literally Cash. On my birth certificate and everything.”
“That’s some pretty high expectations your parents put on you, huh?”
He lets out a chuckle. “You have no idea.”
“By the way, how did you know my real name’s Eleanor? The other night? At Vincenzo’s?”
“I found an invitation on the floor by the mailboxes with your apartment number. I slipped it under your welcome mat.”
“That was you?”
He nods and sends me a smile.
So. Dr. McBoxer Briefs is officially nice.