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“Are you from around here?” He asked, making small talk.
“No,” I shook my head, “I’m from New Hampshire. I’m going to Shenandoah University so I guess this is kind of my home now. I certainly don’t plan on going back.”
“Why not?” He squinted when he glanced at me.
“It’s not important,” I shrugged. I didn’t need to go into detail about my dad and his controlling nature. It would only sour my mood.
“Sorry, I’m prying,” he smiled sheepishly. “If I ask you what you’re studying, would that be too personal?” He tightened a bolt, holding the tire in place.
“I’m studying to be an English teacher but I’d really like to write a book someday. I probably won’t though,” I shrugged.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
I snorted. “I’m sure I’d suck at it.”
“You don’t know until you try,” he replied and my eyes zeroed in on the muscles flexing in his arms.
My hormones seemed to go into overdrive when I was around Trace. I had never been attracted to someone, like I was with Trace. True, he was insanely good looking. But it was more than that. There was something about him that drew me in.
“I don’t think I’ve experienced enough to write a book,” I reasoned, toeing the ground.
Trace stopped working and turned towards me. “Isn’t that the point though? It’s fiction, you make it up.”
“But it still needs to be realistic,” I rambled, waving my hands through the air as I talked.
“Olivia, you’re overthinking this,” he stopped what he was doing and crossed his arms over his chest, a wrench dangling between his fingers. “If you want to write a book, you just sit down, and start writing.”
I wet my lips and looked down at my hands to avoid his stare.
He finished putting the tire on, leaving me to my thoughts.
My car lowered to the ground and Trace popped the hood.
“What are you doing?” I asked, coming to life again.
“You’re already here,” he shrugged, “and according to the sticker in your car, you’re due for an oil change.”
“Oh, right,” I muttered. “I forgot.”
Trace grinned, sweeping his dark hair out of his eyes.
I grew quiet again as I watched his movements. It was clear that Trace knew what he was doing and he loved it. He smiled and whistled under his breath the entire time he worked on my car.
“You’re good to go,” he announced, closing the hood of my car.
“What do I owe you?” I asked, digging through the bottomless pit of my purse to locate my wallet.
Trace made a noise in the back of his throat and waved his hand through the air. “It’s on the house.”
“No!” I cried. “I can’t let you do that!” I might not have been a car expert, but I knew enough to know that tires weren’t cheap, and neither was oil.
Trace crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the side of my car. Grinning cockily, he said, “You can make it up to me by going out for lunch.”
“With you?” I choked.
“Well,” his smile deepened, “that was kind of a given.”
I felt like I was being strangled. “Fine,” I conceded, “but I’m paying for my own lunch,” I pointed at him menacingly.
