“It’s fine,” I say, wiping off my face enough that I can lie back again without worrying about oil getting in my eyes. “I’m guessing he didn’t tell you I’m holding down the fort for the next week.” I wheel myself back under the car and get the valve closed up while I talk.
“No. He didn’t. Or maybe he did, and I just wasn’t listening. Either one is possible.”
I slide back out and sit on the trolley, looking up at the woman, who in my memory was still a five-year-old girl up until a couple of days ago when I saw her at Duke’s wedding. Back then, Duke and I were teenagers who thought we were too cool to have a little kid in pigtails following us around. Then his family up and sold their farm and moved to the suburbs. I kept in touch with Duke, but I never spent any time around his family. Duke has always been very protective of his little sister. A fact I was reminded of during his wedding reception when he warned me not to go near her.
“You grew up good, Dot,” I say, giving her a lazy grin as I stand until I’m towering over her. She cranes her neck to maintain eye contact. At least that part hasn’t changed. She’s always had to look up at me.
She smiles before breaking eye contact. But it was enough that I could see that smile didn’t touch her eyes. And when she angles her chin and sighs, I know immediately that the compliment wasn’t welcome. She shakes her head.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” she says, already stepping away. “Sorry again for kicking you.”
She flicks her hand dismissively, and before she can get away from me, I quickly wrap my hand around her wrist and hold steady. “Don’t leave yet. I never got a chance to talk to you at the weddin’.”
Her dark eyes flash as she pulls her wrist from my grip and looks up at me. “I noticed. You never took that dance you asked for.”
The memory of her dancing alone or with friends and relatives returns to my mind. How do I tell her that I was on my way to collect when her big brother stepped in and asked me not to start something that I couldn’t finish with his sister.
So, out of respect for my lifelong friend, I stepped back and put the idea of holding the soft curves of this beautiful woman while we danced out of my head. I stepped back and tried to forget the idea of her long dark hair brushing over my forearm as we swayed side to side, her sweet breath tickling my neck while I held her close. I tried to forget.
But as I stand here, covered in oil and grime while she looks up at me with the faint hint of hurt in her eyes, I can’t forget the things I wanted when I saw her again for the first time in over thirty years. The little Dottie Fox from my memory is all grown up and matured into a gorgeous, self-sufficient, amazing woman. And now that I’ve seen her, I can’t look away.
For the sake of my friendship with her brother, however, Icanpretend that I don’t see.
Clearing my throat, I shift my focus to the rag in my hand and wipe at the oil covering my overalls, so I don’t have to look her in the eyes when I say, “I’m really not much of a dancer.”
I can feel her eyes assessing me as she gives me a slow nod then shifts back on her feet. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t ask people then,” she says, already walking away as she shoots over her shoulder, “Make sure you use sawdust on that oil.”
My gaze doesn’t leave her until she disappears through a door in the back of the shop, and I hear another door beyond that open and slam shut. I wince. Then I sigh. I have no interest in hurting Dottie in any way, but it seems that despite keeping my distance like her brother asked, that’s exactly what I’ve done.
DOTTIE
“And that isit.Linework done,” I say, spraying down my client’s arm then wiping it clean. He angles his body to try and get a good look. “If you want to check it out in the mirror first, I’ll wrap it right after.”
“Sweet. Thanks.”
He moves over to the full-length mirror and inspects the artwork on this thigh. During the session, he said he wanted this to eventually be a full leg piece with the forest and sky on his thigh merging into a rough seascape on his calf. I’m not sure if he’s planning on asking me to do the second half, or if he wants to merge two artist’s styles. But either way, it’ll be a pretty epic addition to his current tattoo collection.
While I get the wrap and tape ready to cover his tattoo for his journey home, I spot movement in the back of the shop where the break room is. Instantly, my heart kicks up a beat because while I’m kinda peeved at Theo for standing me up the way he did at the wedding reception, I can’t ignore that fact that my bodysingsat his mere presence.
Every word that comes out of that man’s mouth is like invisible fingers tracing long lines across my skin. He could be talking about shoveling sheep dung, and I’d sit there enraptured just to hear him speak. It makes me feel ridiculous since our skipped dance was a clear sign he isn’t interested in me. But a girl can’t help following a lifelong pattern of falling hard and fast for unavailable men—yet another reason I quit dating.
At least he’ll only be here for a week.
“Do you need something?” I call out to him as he moves from the back of the store to the reception area where I have a wall covered in framed pictures displaying my art, along with several leather-bound portfolios showing off past work. I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating these things, and I normally display them proudly. But something about the way Theo leans in and inspects my drawings has me feeling a little off. Like I’m somehow exposed.
Theo looks over at me and flashes a smile. “Maybe,” he says, drawing out each syllable like it’s a separate word.
“I’ll be with you when I’m done here,” I say, turning my attention back to my paying client. It’s a short conversation and half a roll of tape later that we’re standing at the register booking in our next session and paying for this one. All the while, Theo is quietly inspecting my work. I’m keenly aware of every shift of his body as he goes through my portfolios, page after page after page.
“Long sitting,” Theo says when I let the client out and lock the shop door behind him, flipping the sign over to ‘closed’.
“Ten hours,” I sigh, rolling my neck from side to side to work out the kinks that leaning over and concentrating creates.
“You look like you could use a massage.”
I laugh and lift my chin toward the pile of folios he’s going through. “And you look like you’re window shopping for more ink.”
He smiles. “I wouldn’t say no to a Dottie Fox original. You’ve got skills, Spot.”
