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I offer her my most sarcastic, “Ha ha ha.” I know she’s only trying to cheer me up. Neither one of us likes to wallow. Much. “Anyway, Mario’s Pizzeria is probably grateful I’m so slow with taking out the trash and recycling. It’s just more free advertising on my counter.”
“You make an excellent point, my friend.”
A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead, and I stop wiping to tie my hair into a curly red knot on top of my head.
The truth is I might be sad about being displaced, but I’m also really happy for Emi and Nash. I want to make things easy on them. Plus I owe him one. I owe himseveralones. When he left, Nash thought I’d be taking over his position at McCoy Construction—everyone thought I would—mostly because I kind of said I might.
But that job didn’t stick.
It’s possible Imayhave the slightest tendency to shift gears.On a dime, my brother likes to say. But like Bruno, we don’t talk about that. At leastIdon’t talk about it. Mac? He brings my whiplash-y life up enough for all of us. But I can’t think about his potential disapproval of me right now. I’m too busy trying to sweat less.
“I’ve got some Gatorade in a cooler in the trunk,” Jill offers. “And nobody else is waiting to wash their cars right now. Let’s leave ours parked here and grab a seat in the shade to hydrate.” She jerks her chin to indicate a picnic table under a big leaf maple between the auto shop and the car wash. Unfortunately, my gaze slides over to Spencer again, and he catches my eye.
Again.
Before I can look away, he strides toward me, carrying a rag and a squirt bottle full of blue liquid. He tucks the rag in one of the back pockets of his shorts. His shirt’s already hanging out of the other. I sure wish he’d have the decency to put it on.
The shirt. Not the rag.
When he reaches me, he tilts his head. “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
My focus involuntarily slips to his mouth. “That’s a weird question. Even for you.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I amnotstaring.” I scoff with extra scoffing.
“Are too.”
“Not.” My body stiffens. I hate being caught. So very much. Especially by Spencer Crane. “Besides. How would I even know if you had spinach in your teeth when you were all the way over there?”
“I’m here now.” He smirks. With extra smirking. “And for the record, I prefer iceberg lettuce.”
“Figures.” A snort escapes my nose, and I immediately start to blush. “That’s the dullest of all the produce. A lettuce head is just a ball of leaves made of water.”
Spencer’s smirk turns into a chuckle. “I suppose that depends on what you do with it.” He shifts his weight, and his torso gleams. Someone needs to turn down the sun. “On that note,” he says, “I thought you should know you’re doing it wrong, Mess.”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“Which is exactly why I do it.” Spencer started referring to me asMessinstead of Tess after the one time I left a few—very few—papers scattered across the reference desk. Did I mention it wasone time? And they were blueprints anyway. Unlike pizza boxes, which you stack, blueprints are supposed to be spread out.
“Anyway, whatexactlyam I doing wrong? Preferring delicious spinach over boring iceberg?”
He points at my windshield. “You can’t wipe away water spots once they’ve dried. You’re going to need some of this.” When he reaches out to offer me the spray bottle, his abs split into four rows, and the split down the middle makes it look like eight. So many abs.
Math is my enemy.
“I know that,” I choke out. “Everybody knows that.” My throat’s so dry now, I can barely swallow. I hope Spencer doesn’t hear the hitch in my voice. I absolutely cannot look at him this way.
I mean, sure,somepeople might be attracted to Spencer’s competence and know-how. But he drivesmenuts. Not to mention, he’s already crushing on Kayla Herrera. She’s the librarian who took Emi’s place when she and Nash moved away. And before Kayla, Spencer was in love with Lucy Devlin, another coworker. And prior tothat, he had a thing for Brooke Wallace. They worked together too. Spencer shifts his objects of affection like I shift jobs. It’s ridiculous.
He’sridiculous.
“I just figured you didn’t know,” he continues. “Since you were rubbing the glass and”—he points at the windshield—“the spots are still there.”
I lean back against my car, which is, admittedly, still spotty. “Who made you the expert on water spots?”
“My brother.” Spencer shrugs. “When he hired me.”
