Page 30 of The Best Shot

Dr. Kimball’s smile tightened. “Are you… joining us?”

“For a little bit, yeah. I’m starving.” I leaned back. “What were we talking about?”

“I was telling Hale about my research,” she said.

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

She glanced at Ava.

Ava sighed.

“Postcolonial narratives in Victorian literature,” the professor said.

“Huh.” I nodded. “Sounds intense.”

“It’s fairly demanding, if you’re not used to it.” Her tone thinned.

“I bet.”

My margarita arrived quick, followed a minute later by fries hot enough to burn my fingers. Tuesday-night service had its advantages.

Dr. Kimball turned back to Hale. “So you work with cars?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Interesting.” She took a delicate sip of her wine. “Do you work on all types of vehicles, or do you specialize?”

“Bit of everything. Whatever folks need fixin’.”

The drawl was the thickest I’d ever heard it, slow as molasses and twice as sweet. I half expected to blink and find a piece of straw hanging from his mouth, maybe a Stetson lowered over his brow. Hilarious, because Hale was absolutely not a cowboy-hat kind of man.

“And you enjoy it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s honest work.”

I watched him shrink into her expectation. The small-town mechanic who probably skimmed headlines and called it reading.

Ava saw it too and looked vaguely horrified.

I grabbed the ketchup and settled in for the show.

“I—” Dr. Kimball regrouped. “Where did you study?”

“Here and there. Online mostly.”

“You have a degree?”

He scratched his neck and pondered. “Got some mechanic certifications. Does that count?”

She blinked at him.

He looked back, guileless.

I wanted to laugh.

Dr. Kimball took another sip of wine, her gaze moving over him with a new kind of attention. Like she had noticed something, but pride wouldn’t let her admit it.

“Certifications,” she repeated.