Chapter 4
August
Is this man serious right now?
“I—” I don’t know how to respond. I expected him to be pissed off and yell at me for Patrick’s lack of organizational skills. I know I would be peeved if this happened to me. Walking off with a customer’s keys? Unacceptable. He’ll be getting an earful from me, that’s for sure.
“Do you not like turkey sandwiches? I think there’s some potato salad. I know Ruby packed some chips and grapes, too. Oh! And I have more of the cookies from last time.”
Is Ruby his wife? My eyes track to his left hand, noticing the lack of ring or tan line.
It doesn't matter if he’s married. He’s not asking me out. He’s simply being a kind human, offering me food because my stomach decided to embarrass me.
I do want more of those cookies. I’ve dreamed of them—I refuse to acknowledge the part where the baker of said cookies is feeding them to me naked in those dreams, especially if he’s married.
“Your van should be unlocked, yes, and I… I’ll eat pretty much anything.”
“Perfect. Be right back.” Saint ambles out the front door and grabs a heavy duty cooler from the back, along with a Tupperware container full of cookies.
When he comes back inside, we sit at two chairs separated by a small coffee table. He sets the cooler on the ground and unloads the contents.
“You just have a full meal in your van?” I muse out loud.
He chuckles, handing me a wrapped sandwich. “Ruby always packs me enough food to survive if I get stranded somewhere when I’m running errands.”
“Ruby sounds like a great… wife?”
Saint’s eyebrows knit together before a laugh rumbles out of him. A deep belly laugh that has my skin prickling and a shiver running down my spine. “Oh, lord, no. Ruby isn’t my wife. She’s my pain-in-the-ass sister who I love very much.”
I don’t want to examine why that fills me with relief.
“Ah, well she can’t be too much of a pain if she’s packing you food like this.”
Saint chuckles again. “She’s not. Our business wouldn’t survive without her expertise. Hell, I wouldn’t have a business at all if she hadn’t bullied me into trying.” The fondness and appreciation in his voice makes it evident how much he loves her, and a pinch of longing settles in my heart.
I’ve never had anyone I was that close to. I had friends growing up, sure, but I never had a best friend, let alone a sibling. It was just me and my dad. I have Kelly, too, but she’s more of a pseudo-mom.
I reach across him to grab a packet of mayo, ripping it open with my teeth and slathering it on the bread. “So you own the bakery together?”
Saint smears mustard on his bread. “We own a combination bakery and café of sorts. Ruby makes the savory stuff. Sandwiches, soups, wraps, salads, et cetera, and I make the baked goods.”
I nod, taking a bite of the sandwich. I nearly moan when I get a mouthful of the bread. It’s soft and fluffy with some type of herb swirl throughout adding flavor to every bite. “That’s really cool. Did she make the bread? It’s heavenly.”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “No, I’m in charge of the bread, even if it’s technically savory. This is my infamous garlic herb french bread. Best used to make cheesy bread and sandwiches.”
“Well, I give it a ten—no—eleven out of ten. I may have to make the trip to Cupid’s Cove just to get more of this.”
Our eyes meet, the dark green of his sweatshirt brings out the small flecks of green mixed with the brown. “I’ll bring you some whenever you’d like.”
I try to laugh it off as a joke, but he doesn't join me. I get the impression he’s serious, which is crazy. Why would he drive all the way here to bring me bread? It would make more sense for me to drive there, but I can’t, not just for bread.
I could go for bread and cookies. That would be reasonable.
Saint’s gaze darts down to my lips. I must have some mayo on them, so I swipe my tongue across, his eyes tracking the movement before he shifts, looking away and taking a bite of his sandwich.
It feels like the temperature got turned up fifteen degrees.
I expect to sit in awkward silence while we wait for Patrick, but Saint surprises me by making conversation.
“How long have you been a mechanic?”
“Five years. Almost six.”
“That’s cool. How long is schooling to be a mechanic?”
“I had two options: a one year certificate program or a two year associate program. I opted for the associate because I wanted more education.”
“Is there a specific reason for that?”
I shrug. “I wanted to make sure I learned everything I could before I entered the job force. Plus, an associate degree looks better on resumes.”
“That makes sense. I took a baking class in college as an elective, but I never thought I’d use it. If I tried to get a job at a bakery I didn’t own, I don’t think anyone would hire me.” The humor in his voice helps ease some of the tension I’m still holding onto.
I expect his next question to be about me working in a male-dominated profession, since everyone always brings it up, so I’m shocked when he asks, “What’s the hardest tool to work with?”
“In my opinion, the tire balancer. Trusting machines to calibrate a car’s key component isn’t my favorite.”
“Don’t you use a lot of machines, though?”
“We do, but it doesn’t mean I always trust them. More often than not, I find myself double-checking things after to make sure nothing was missed.”
“I can relate. Sometimes I prefer to hand knead a dough rather than use the mixer because it doesn’t always turn out the way I want it to otherwise. What brand of car is your favorite to work on?”
“Toyotas are the easiest to work on, but I don’t have much of a preference. If I’m honest, I prefer to work on motorcycles over cars. I’ve had the chance to rebuild two, and they’re a fun and easy fix.”
“Do you work on a lot of motorcycles?”
“Not as many as I’d like.”
We’ve both finished our sandwiches by now, and I’ve moved on to chips while he eats grapes when he asks, “Is your job fulfilling?”
I’ve never been asked that before. I don’t know how to explain the work itself can be fulfilling, but I’d much rather be working on restoration projects. Instead of changing oil day in and day out, I’d rather be tinkering with run-down motorcycles.
“Most of the time, yes.”
Saint hums. “What about the rest of your life? Are you fulfilled, Mikey?”
What the hell kind of question is that?
I’m about to come up with some bullshit answer when Patrick rushes through the door, holding Saint’s keys. The sun is just starting to set, so hopefully Saint can make it home safely before it’s too dark.
Since when do you care this much about a customer?
Since Saint brought me cookies and started asking insightful questions.
“I am so, so sorry. This is a massive fuckup on my account. If you ever need another tow or oil change, it’s on me.” Patrick hands Saint his keys, looking sheepish.
Saint doesn’t curse him out or berate him, he just gives him a nod and a smile. “No problem at all, man. Sorry you had to come all the way back here.”
Patrick looks taken aback by the apology. “I—it’s all good. Mikey, do you need anything else before I head out again?”
“No. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Have a good weekend,” Saint says as Patrick leaves. “Let me help you clean up in here,” he offers, gesturing to the lobby. It’s not in disarray, but the floor needs to be swept, and I need to wipe some smudges off the doorframe.
“It’s okay. You should probably get going before it gets too dark.”
Saint hesitates, like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I help him pack up the sides I never got to try and throw the rest in the trash. He hands me the Tupperware of cookies, insisting I take them as a thank you.
“Oh, I—”
“Mikey, please. Take them.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He seems pleased by his small victory, and I… I like that I pleased him.
Goddamnit, this crush is out of control.
Just as Saint gets to the front door, he turns around. “I don’t like leaving you alone here when it’s getting dark.”
A smile spreads across my face. What a gentleman, this lumberjack-Viking-baker. “Oh, don’t worry. Merv’s in his office in the back of the garage doing whatever it is he does. He always waits for me to leave before he does. But I appreciate you looking out.”
“Oh, good. Well, have a good weekend.”
“You, too, Saint. Drive safe.”
“You, too. I mean, yeah. Drive safe to your house. Or apartment. Condo?” He winces. “And enjoy the cookies. I added a splash more bourbon to this batch, so it might be a little stronger.”
“I’m sure they’re just as delicious.” I barely hold back a giggle. He’s acting like he doesn’t actually want to leave, which is crazy, considering no one wants to spend their night with a stranger in a mechanic shop.
Finally, he says goodbye one last time and walks out. I lock the shop door but stand at the window and wave him off. When his tail lights disappear out of the parking lot, I grab the broom and start sweeping.
Halfway through, Merv slams the door open, startling me so much I drop the broom.
“Damn you, Merv, how many times do I have to tell you the door doesn’t need to be slammed open? You scared the shit out of me.”
“Why the hell are you still here?” He scans the lobby, like I’m hiding something, but he gets distracted when he sees the cookies. He beelines for the counter, popping open the container and grabbing four.
“Patrick took off with a customer’s keys, so I had to wait with him until he brought them back.”
Merv munches on a cookie and tilts his head. “The big guy with the van? The one who made these?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I tell ya, Mikey, that man fancies ya.”
I scoff. “He does not.”
“Why the hell else would he come all the way down here for service? There’s gotta be a mechanic in that small town of his.”
“He was picking up supplies or whatever. It’s not like he can drive back without a fuel pump fuse. He’d break down halfway up the mountain.”