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My newly revitalized mental demon frowns at me. Snagging my purse, I shove my keys inside, not wanting to add a locksmith’s bill to this fiasco. I punch in a search for directions to the nearest gas station on my phone and start walking.
Fantastic. Less than two miles. I might minimize this clusterfuck if I could make it to work before the morning coffee clutch.
We also strongly prefer not to add unemployment to our laundry list of adventures this morning.
One dressy loafer-clad foot in front of the other. Focus on the gas station. Please let it be a simple gas gauge issue.
It’s not the gas gauge.
“Can it pipsqueak.” Now I really look wackadoodle. Talking out loud to myself, trudging down the side of the highway, and trying to rationalize a highly irrational situation.
I make it to the exit and attempt to put a little more pep in my step. I’m not used to this much cardio. I’m not used to much exercise at all, thanks to multiple desk jobs and online work.
I feel like one of those little dogs with short legs trying desperately to keep pace with their human when they go for a walk. Sweat has seeped through unmentionable areas of my clothing. Thank God I have loafers on, or I’d also have blisters and a twisted ankle.
There. There’s a gas station. Two more blocks. Almost there. Don’t beat yourself up. This is going to be fine.
Only it wasn’t. How does a gas station not have any gas cans?
“There’s a parts store a bit up the road.”
The poor kid behind the counter cowers behind the Plexiglass divider and appears genuinely contrite with just a dash of fear thrown in. Perhaps I wasn’t doing a stellar job of keeping my emotions off my face.
“Thank you.” I assemble a facsimile of a smile. “I’ll be back.”
Turning, I nearly collide with a tallish guy standing a few steps behind me. He’s holding a drink in one hand that I thankfully don’t spill all over myself or him. The coffee wouldn’t be a welcome addition to his clean white polo shirt.
“I could give you a ride if you want?”
My eyes scan over him. There are no overt signs of a serial killer or apparent stalkerish mannerisms. He seems social, chatting with another person in line, and looks well put together. Other than his neat clothing, his hair is organized, he’s freshly shaven, and there’s just something about his face that gives the impression that he’s about to smile. In my current state of an extreme adrenaline dump, my usual fear of strangers doesn’t surface.
“That would be fantastic. Thank you.”
He steps around me to pay for his coffee, and I meekly follow him to his gigantic truck. Now I’m the one hoping I look normal since I desperately need him to keep helping me.
“You’re in luck,” he says.
No, you’re not.
I strain to keep the strange man in focus and hold myself back from outwardly telling my brain to stuff it and keep quiet.
I must have looked confused because the tall stranger quickly continues, “I’m a mechanic.”
Maybe I was in luck. Maybe the tall mechanic could figure this out quicker than I’d hoped. Maybe he'd keep me from getting fired. Maybe he’d be so kind and helpful and altruistic that he wouldn't accept any money to do it either.
Fingers crossed.
You’re delusional.
I mentally punt Debby Downer across the parking lot before Mechanic Man gets a hint of my special brand of crazy. Turning my back on his classically handsome face, I start to lumber up a set of metal steps attached to the running board. Sliding onto the seat, I find he’s still behind me, and a wave of self-consciousness brings on a full-body blush. I mean, really, he would be absolutely devastating with a set of dimples, and despite the fact that he tries to hide it, I know he’s checking out my butt.
“I’m Matt, by the way.” He holds out his hand for a shake.
“Lenore.” I smile back at him. I picture Debby Downer on the other side of the parking lot, stomping off and muttering under her breath. “Nice to meet you.”
His fingers slip slowly from mine. I can feel the callouses on his palm, and suddenly I’m too aware of how close we are. As if he senses my unease, he steps back, nods, and closes my door. I watch as he slides easily onto the seat. He’s so tall he didn’t even have to use the step. His thick ring of keys jangles when he starts the beast of a vehicle, which sounds reassuringly healthy. Although, what do I know based on my previous experience?
I fidget with the shoulder strap of the seat belt and try to keep my mind off how much bigger his hand is than mine. His fingers are broad, and he must be good with his hands if he’s a mechanic. I shock myself when I accidentally imagine what else he could do with his hands.
