Chapter 18 #2
Something in my chest eases, even as every other part of me stays wired tight from being pressed against her. “Good.” I nod once, thumb brushing her hip. “Because I like slow. Gives me time to figure out what the hell this is.”
Her fingers slide up my chest, resting over my heart. “Slow’s good.”
“Yeah?” I murmur. “Then let’s start with finishing cleanup before your brother circles back and decides to beat my ass.”
She smirks. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m alive, for now. That’s fun enough.”
She leans in anyway, brushing her mouth against mine in a slow, lingering kiss. I cradle her jaw, deepening it just once before pulling back with a groan that’s half frustration, half pleasure.
“Let’s finish up,” I say against her lips. “Before I forget why that’s a bad idea.”
She grins, sliding past me with a sway of her hips that makes it impossible to focus on anything else. “Better hurry then, Bescher. You’re already distracted.”
“Always am with you,” I mutter, mostly to myself, grabbing a rag and forcing my hands to move before they find their way back to her instead.
Adrienne’s taillights shrink down the road until they’re a pair of red pinpricks and then nothing at all. That soft, nervous laugh she left me with when she pressed her lips against mine in a goodbye kiss still lingers.
I’m grinning like an idiot to nobody. Can’t help it. We actually talked. Didn’t slap some too-cool joke over the top of it, didn’t run.
Slow. We said slow. I can do slow for her. I need to slow down, too.
I roll the bay door up another foot and let the evening drift in. There’s a hint of rain somewhere on the horizon. I grab a rag and glance around for anything to busy my hands so I feel grounded and not like I'm floating ten feet above my body.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, Barbie,” I say to myself, glancing over at the Mustang.
I grab the cover and start to drag it up the car, but something catches my eye.
I lean into the driver’s side, and something at the footwell winks at me.
Just a flash, quick as a fish turning. I bend further, reaching for the item that’s tucked half under the mat.
“Hey now,” I murmur, pinching it carefully.
It’s a thin silver chain, kinked, delicate as spider silk.
It lifts light as breath, a broken clasp dangling from the end.
The chain runs to a small oval locket with a delicate floral design.
I stand back up, leaning against the car as I struggle to open it, my thumbs far too large and calloused for the delicate clasp. But finally, it gives.
Inside, there’s a grainy, sun-faded photo. It’s a tiny Adrienne with summer-wild hair and sunburnt cheeks, maybe six, maybe seven, laughing like she can’t hold it, arms slung around her dad Hudson’s neck.
He’s younger in it, but still Hudson Slade through and through.
He’s got that famous Slade stare, but his eyes are softer because he’s looking at his little girl like she hung the moon.
She’s squishing her face against his, her eyes practically squeezed shut.
It’s the kind of picture that reminds me of the smell of sunscreen and hose water and popsicles melting down our wrists.
Something squeezes tight under my sternum. My thumb drifts over the tiny smile until it blurs. “Damn, Barbie,” I breathe, throat rough as creek rock. She deserves the world.
I flip it shut gently and turn it over. The clasp’s fine-boned and wrecked, bent just enough that it won’t catch. On the back, there’s a small engraving.
Love always, Dad.
I wonder how long she’s spent looking for this. There’s no way she hasn’t turned over every corner, pulled out every drawer in search of it. She’s always been sentimental, so I know it would mean the world to her if I could get it fixed and return it to her.
Nate can fix this easily.
Palmer’s Pawn has seen worse, I’m sure, and they’ve been around since long before I was even born. Nate Palmer runs the shop now, since his dad retired. I can hear him now, grumbling about the cheap solder here, reaching for that little torch to fix it.
I picture setting it in her palm once it’s fixed. I imagine the way I know her face will light up. And because my stupid heart has no boundaries tonight, the thought jumps the fence and sprints.
And tell her, idiot. Tell her right then what she does to you. Tell her you’re in. That you’ll show up. That slow doesn’t mean scared. That you’re in love with her.
The back of my neck heats. I swallow it down.
Not yet. We said slow—I said slow because I need it. I’ve got a decade and a half of commitment issues to undo. I curl the chain into my fist, feel how small it is against my palm, then slide it into the pocket of my jeans, safe against the heat of my thigh.
“Palmer first,” I say to the empty bay, to the car, to myself. “Then I’ll return it.”
I finish pulling the cover over the Mustang. Turn the lights off, bay door down, and keys into the drawer where they belong. Locket safe. I pat my pocket once more, just to make sure, and lock up.
“You’re in deep, man,” I laugh to myself as I walk to my truck. But for once, I’m okay with it.