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Then and only then do I drive home alone, knowing exactly what I’m going to be doing while thinking of her pretty mouth and all its uses.
* * *
The next day, I’m working on a car that seems to have been held together either by prayer or a pact with the devil. Not sure which, especially since I know it’s the librarian’s car and she could swing either way.
My earpiece buzzes, and I hit it, answering my phone as I work. “Hello?”
“Oh, I’m wondering if my Audi’s ready to be picked up?”
“And who’s this? Had a few in.”
The person hesitates and says, “Sidney Novak.”
Call me suspicious, but that’s not Sidney. Since I never put it under her name, I cheerfully say, “Wrong place. No one booked here under that name.”
I end the call, and I look to my left, where a pair of boots and uniform trousers in the shade of my twin the sheriff is.
I roll out from beneath the car and look up at him. “The ugly version of me.”
“Getting into trouble, there, Mack?”
“I’m basically a saint.”
He just shakes his head and snorts. “Right, and my Wildcat’s a wilting flower of a woman.”
“Maybe she is. Leave her, and I’ll let you know.”
“We may be twins,” he said, sounding completely unthreatened, “but I’ll shoot you.”
“Mom won’t like that. You know I’m her favorite.”
“She’ll get over it.” Then he squats down, smacks me on the head with his hat, and studies me. “Speaking of, she wants you to come to dinner this weekend. It might be over your manners. Let’s talk about those, huh? Or lack thereof?”
“I’m well fuckin’ mannered.”
“Says the brother who got the leftovers in the looks department,” he says.
Getting up, I go to the fridge and pull out two beers. “Catch.”
He catches it, pops the top, and takes a foamy swig. “Manners?”
“Word travels, huh?”
I got an excuse for not seeing her in like I know I should have last night, like I wanted to. And not just from those deeply ingrained manners Mom put in us. But I didn’t trust myself.
If I got out then, I’d have been up in her room and on her fast, and I don’t think the princess would have stopped me.
He’s looking at me. “And?”
“Mind your fuckin’ business. You and all the people who have nothing better to do. Jesus.”
“I don’t think he’s got anything to do with it. You and your rescue, on the other hand—”
“And,” I say, taking a swallow of my beer, “you need to keep out of it.”
“So, wedding invites soon?”
“Fuck you.”
