Chapter 19
[Tate]
When we finally reach our destination, Neve swivels in her seat. Shock on her face, awe in her voice.
“A classic car show.”
“I know some people like to shop for antiques. Figured you’d like to check out old cars.”
For a moment, she just looks at me. Not suspicious. Not teasing. Just still. Focused. Then her expression shifts, small, but real.
Her gaze softens as does her voice. “Did you plan this for me?” The question is full of wonder yet confusion.
Like she isn’t used to people thinking of her, surprising her with something just to please her.
Then her eyes slowly narrow, her smirk turns playful and teasing. “Do you like to shop for antiques?”
“I’m more of a contemporary guy.” I laugh as I press open my door. I round the car for her side, and when I help her out of the new SUV, I keep her hand in mine, linking our fingers together.
Neve doesn’t pull away until she nears the first car, getting all excited by the open hood. Letting her do her thing, I stand back while she inspects the engine. I recognize car emblems, but I don’t know half as much as Neve does. And I don’t need to know more. This is about her.
I follow at her pace as she goes from one classic vehicle to another. She talks to owners and dealers and other enthusiasts, checking on me every once in a while to find I’m still behind her.
“You’re bored,” she says at one point.
“I am absolutely not bored.” I’m loving watching her talk shop. She’s in an element, and I’m just basking in the glow coming off her.
The show isn’t particularly large. Maybe a dozen cars or so. Eventually, she has seen them all.
“Lunchtime yet?” I ask.
“Absolutely. I’m starving.” She rubs her hand over her baby bump.
“Then let’s get you something to eat.” I slip my arm over her shoulder, leading her back to the SUV.
We’re far enough from Lovewell Landing that I take her to another place I know.
The Sand Bar is a little shack on the coast, overlooking the water.
“I can’t have oysters,” Neve states.
“I know, but they have the best lobster roll. Unless the smell of seafood makes you nauseous.”
Neve rolls her head on the headrest. “I’m a Mainer, through and through. Seafood runs in my bloodstream.”
With that, we head into the café. Red vinyl checkerboard tablecloths cover picnic tables with bench seats. I help Neve onto a bench before we place our orders using the QR code on the menu. Drinks are self-serve, straight out of an upright cooler, so I grab Neve a lemonade and a Sprite for myself.
“You can have a beer,” she says, her East Coast accent popping out.
“I’m good.” I’m showing her my solidarity. “How are you feeling?”
Neve tells me more about the pregnancy. How full she feels. Little Wrench’s feet in her ribs. She’s struggling to sleep at night.
“And I’ve got that doctor’s appointment on Wednesday,” she says, like I’ve forgotten.
“Got it in my calendar. I’ll pick you up.”
Neve doesn’t fight me on the idea.
“So, the car show . . .” I start. She’s already thanked me for attending, and now I have a deeper question. “Have you ever considered working on classic cars? You told me how you fixed up that Bronco with your dad. Ever consider doing it on your own?”
Neve blows out a breath. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about acquiring classic cars. Or running a business doing it.”
I chuckle. “But you’ve already run an auto-repair business.”
“And look at the shitty job I did.”
“You didn’t do a shitty job, Neve. You played the hand you were dealt and did what you could with it.” I pause, leaning my arms on the table. “Have you ever considered a fresh start? On your own?”
She stares at me like she hasn’t thought about it.
“You could get a financial advisor to help you out.”
“I don’t have the money,” she says, her voice low, like the wind is knocked out of her.
“But you will soon.” The sale of the garage will be divided four ways, but Neve will still have a nice settlement to use toward something new. A place of her own.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Her voice is still hushed, her eyes lowered as she runs her fingers along the checkered tablecloth.
“I could help you.”
Her head pops up, but then she looks to the side. “I don’t know.”
I pull back, because I don’t want to push, but I hope I’ve planted a seed. “Maybe just think about it.”
Because I don’t want her working for Bucky Beaver. There isn’t a job there.
When our food arrives, Neve digs into the lobster roll she ordered.
She hums around the first bite, closing her eyes like it’s the best she’s ever eaten. When her eyes open, she looks directly at me.
“You’ve got something . . .” I point at my mouth, then reach across the table to the crumbs on the corner of her lip. The second I make contact, I slow my touch, taking an extra swipe over her mouth.
Neve remains frozen. Holding her sandwich in her hands, her eyes wide. Her mouth softly popping open.
If we weren’t in a public place, I might hand-feed her the lobster chunks. Let her suck on my fingers again.
Instead, I clear my throat, retract my hand, and dig into my own sandwich.
“I wish I had room for the pumpkin pie on the menu,” she says, once our meal ends. “But I’m stuffed.”
“How about apple pie? At your place?”
Neve gives me a long look before agreeing. “Sure, you can come over.”
Our eyes lock because it sounded a little like she put extra emphasis on that second to last word. Playing over it like we did the night we met.
However, once back at Neve’s, all playfulness is gone. We turn on her television set, find a movie, and Neve promptly falls asleep. Her head lolls on my shoulder as we sit close on her small couch.
When I stretch my arm around her, guiding her head down to my lap, Neve kicks her feet up to the cushions, and I tug the blanket draped along the back of the couch over her.
Then I run my fingers through her hair, pulling out the hairpins she uses to hold the waves back.
I comb through those short curly strands and settle in.
Neve was right earlier. We aren’t living in a romantic movie.
Her head in my lap. My fingers in her hair. Our baby in her belly.
This is reality, and it’s so much better.