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I grunt. “Determined to ruin my reputation, aren’t you?”
“I think I’d have fun doing it. Showing the world what an upstanding gentleman you are.”
“An upstanding gentleman who’s been to prison?” The words are a test to see how he reacts.
“I’ve heard those rumors.” He eyes me with interest, but the amusement hasn’t left his face. Good to know he doesn’t scare easy. “Is it true?”
“You’re one of only a handful of people to ask me that directly.”
“And let me guess, that’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“Smart man.”
“Keep your secrets.” He paces slowly, fingertips brushing the things on the edge of my desk as he looks at the framed car posters on the wall behind me. The only wall in my office that isn’t almost all glass. “Interesting collection you have up there.”
“Yup. Those are my babies.”
He hums, eyes lingering a little longer. There are four cars up there. Three are absolute beasts of engineering, and the fourth … holds more sentimental value than anything.
I wait Orson out, watching as he goes from inspecting the pictures, to the clipboard of jobs hanging by the door, to the filing cabinets sitting along the left wall. He seems to be stalling or … something. I dunno, but I’m curious. I’ve been curious about him for a while.
I know Orson is friends with Art and some of the other guys I know around town. They have a group for divorced guys or something, which almost makes me wish I was divorced so I could join. Most of us have grown up in the area, but Orson moved here with his wife after college, then disappeared for a bit after she passed. I’m not surprised he needed to get away, but I was surprised when he returned, opened the florist, and got on with life as though nothing had happened.
“You like cars?” I ask.
“Not really. I mean, they’re great transportation.” He points at my posters. “And I know that the Bugatti, the Porsche, and the Ferrari up there are all a hell of a lot fancier than a Ford Thunderbird.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a name vanity thing? I would have thought you’d be the kind of guy to at least get off over the original.”
“So youdoknow cars?”
He smiles. “Never said I didn’t. Dad was into them.”
“Was?”
“He died the same year as Tara.”
“Ouch.” I wish I’d never asked.
Orson waves my concern away. “I took my time processing it all. Mom too. I miss them, for sure, but it’s all part of life.” He leans his hip against this side of my desk, close enough that it feels like he’s standing over me. I fucking like it. He points at the T-Bird. “So what’s the story?”
“Thought I could have my secrets?”
“Oh, come on. I gave you my whole sob story.”
“Unlike you, I’m not that gullible.” I look pointedly at his scars, and Orson smoothly tucks his arms behind him.
He leans in. “Tell me about the Ford, Ford.”
“Ahh … known you for two whole days and you’re already a pain in my ass.”
“I’m curious.”
“Curiousandgullible. Tell me, how many Nigerian princes have your bank account details?”
“No princes, but about fourteen princesses. They said I’ll have the money any day now.”
I rub my hand over my mouth to try and hide my smile. Because I’d always known the guy was hot; I’d just never realized he was fun as well. I’d clearly caught him off guard when I bought the flowers yesterday because today, he’s a thousand percent more comfortable. Probably helps he doesn’t have shit smeared up his back.
“The ’73 T-Bird happens to be the car I was born in. My name was supposed to be Alexander, got changed to Ford instead. I heard that story so many times growing up that the car thing must have been embedded in my brain, and so here we are.”
