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“Rose.”
Orson moves on to the next two, which are both in various stages of repair. The Sprite is missing pieces, but the old Jag is barely more than a body at this point. “Names?”
“The Sprite—that little one there—is Rita, and the Jag is Missy.”
He laughs. “Missy?”
“Yeah, ’cause she’s missing so much.”
I fucking love hearing Orson laugh. It’s deeper than his voice and …happy. Some people laugh under pressure, and some people try to control their laughs or don’t let themselves enjoy the moment enough. With Orson, even the smallest laughs have heart behind them.
“You’re not the type to jerk off over your cars, are you?” Orson asks.
“Nope. But I’ve always pictured fucking someone over Rose’s hood.”
His gaze snaps to the Dodge. “Really?”
“Yep. Hard, fast, dirty. Maybe we’ve been fixing up one of the cars together and can’t bear to wait until we get inside and cleaned up.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted someone that badly?”
“Are you asking if I’ve ever been horny?”
“Not necessarily just horny though. Like, that need to have someone. To be with them. Sure, you’re horny too, but it’s more than that as well.”
Given I can’t relate to what he’s talking about, my answer is easy. “Not more than fucking.” I don’t ask him the same question though. It goes without saying Tara was that for him, and I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose that kind of connection.
“No Thunderbird,” he says, but it comes out like a question.
“Nope, but it’s top of my list. These four I sort of came across by accident, and as you can see, I haven’t been able to give them the time they deserve. So I haven’t put the effort into finding a T-Bird.”
“You should.”
“I know, but every time I mean to, it’s like the days get away from me.”
“The days aren’t coming back, you know,” he says softly.
I’m reminded of his wife again, and I assume she’s a part of why this is so hard for him. From what he’s said, Orson’s been with other people since her, but none of them had feelings involved. If he’s starting to feel something for me, something real, it must be confusing for him.
I’d be an idiot if I thought things between us were going to be easy, so it’s lucky I came prepared to do the work. I move a step closer and squeeze his shoulder. “Tell me about your dad.”
That brings a smile to his face. “He worked in insurance and hated it. Used to come home swearing like a trooper about his bosses, pacing the kitchen and ranting to Mom while she cooked dinner.” Orson rubs his scruff, staring at Missy. “I can’t picture him without a cigarette in his hand. It was always there. His gruff face constantly surrounded by a cloud of smoke, whether he was eating dinner, kicking the ball around with me, or tinkering with the old pickup out back.”
“What kind of cars did he like?”
“All of them.” He chuckles. “For him, it was mostly the engines. He loved the mechanics behind it, even if he didn’t actually know what he was doing. He’d roll out diagrams and have stacks of books for reference. He got the pickup going one day … made it halfway down the block before it conked out and we had to push it home again.”
“My kinda man.”
“Yeah.” Orson’s eyes flick my way. “He would have liked you.”
“Cars have a way of bringing people together.”
Orson shakes his head. “Not just because of the cars.”
“Ah, you think he’d love my winning personality, huh?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
