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But he shouldn’t have. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifting from someone’s postage-stamp lawn teased his senses, reminding him of when he’d had a lawn to mow and a wife to love. He wondered if Amy would have ever kicked a tire out of frustration and decided probably not. She was the calmest, least excitable person he’d ever met. Not even her cancer diagnosis had riled her. She’d just smiled and assured him everything would be okay, even at the end when they both knew it wouldn’t. She hadn’t let him grieve with her. Maybe that was why he still couldn’t quite let go.
Maybe that was why he apparently looked like a guy who’d break into a car.
The tire-kicker slipped off her sunglasses and studied him with amusement. Bright blue eyes danced, a striking contrast to her dark brown hair. The color combination seemed impossible, and the cynic in him wondered which of the two had come from a store.
“You look like you know your way around a vehicle,” she said. “Think you can help me out?”
Ethan looked down, wondering what led her to that conclusion. Couldn’t be his clean white tee or his unscuffed shoes.
“By the way,” she said. “I’m Rue Campbell.”
Great. Now they were making introductions. He glanced regretfully down the street in the direction from which he’d come. Just five yards back, his life had been routine. Like that was worth anything. But at least he was handling it, whereas he had no desire to handle whatever was going on here. Nevertheless, he summoned his manners. “Ethan Chase.”
“Nice to know you, Ethan Chase,” Rue said brightly. Way too much so for someone who was locked out of everything she owned. “While you work on that door, I’m going to see if I can get in the house through a window or something. Be gentle with her, okay?”
Before he realized the her in question was the Mustang—the one she’d not-so-gently kicked—Rue had crossed the small yard and stepped into the flower bed that occupied the twelve inches between her house and the narrow drive that separated hers from the place next door. With her back to him, he took a moment to appreciate her curve-hugging dress—more classic than trendy, and practically pinning her knees together to create a vintage hour-glass shape. She made quite a sight, standing so matter-of-factly with her high heels wedged in a heap of Black-eyed Susans as she tugged on a window sash. It didn’t appear to want to budge. Apparently resigned to the same conclusion, she rounded the back corner of the house, seemingly unconcerned that she’d left behind a total stranger with orders to break into her car.
Damned if he wasn’t intrigued.
But not misdemeanor intrigued.
As much as he wanted to avoid the possibility of an angry boyfriend or criminal charges, he figured he could at least let her use his cell phone to call her auto service—surely she at least knew who her insurer was, and they could look it up from there—so instead of taking off, he waited. Hoping to be useful, he walked around the car, trying the passenger door just in case it was unlocked. It wasn’t, so he returned to the driver side. The window was cracked about three inches—too small for his arm, but the coat hanger trick might work. Not that he had one on him. Maybe she could borrow one from a neighbor.
He glanced toward the house, but with no sign of Rue and no desire to come across as a creeper, he uselessly toyed with the door handle.
And for his trouble was promptly hit in the face with a blast of ice-cold water.
He was drenched in a split second, and the source of the water didn’t relent, though an angry voice broke through.
“…and how dare you try to take advantage of that nice young woman? Get your goddamned hands off her car, you son of a bitch!”
He couldn’t see a thing, since the blast aimed directly at his face followed him as he tried to dart out of its way. His attempt at a protest led to a mouthful of bitingly cold water. The idea to duck behind the car came about thirty miserable seconds too late. But once he had taken shelter, it allowed him to discern through the dripping car windows that the source of the onslaught was a water hose in the hands of a little old woman whose language would have stopped a sailor in his tracks. Though his vision was still bleary from the assault, he caught the fact that she was slight. Apron-wearing. He would have taken her for someone who fed strays and baked cookies had she not been cursing and trying to kill him with water.
