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So yeah, when I say she’s like my Jag’s hot little vintage engine, it’s beyond a compliment.
“You have this look on your face.” Her hazel eyes light on me as she finishes her wine and sets it down. “Part lust, part reverence. Should I ask or be scared?”
I laugh. “Thinking about my Jag’s engine.”
Her eyes widen.
“Not like that. It’s not a fetish. I was thinking how you’re like that engine.”
“Greasy and old?”
“No.” I reach out and give that lock of hair a playful tug. “Classy, rare, full of secrets.”
“I see.” She scoots a little closer. “What kind of Jaguar?”
“S1 E-Type. Well, here, we’d say the XK-E, but I’m gonna be a little snobby and call it as the Brits do. E-Type.”
“My gran would love you.” She clutches her hands to her heart.
There she goes, surprising me all over again.
“Your gran, huh?”
Color blooms high in her cheeks. “She loves a good Jag. Soft top or—”
“Princess, cut the fuckin’ roof off that sleek baby and it’s a crime. Fixed head coupe, all the way. But I’m taking my time with her, really getting her how I like. She’s not red. I’d always wanted a black one. But then I saw her. Some old dude two towns over died, and his wife wanted to get rid of the piece of junk. Her words. I saw the Jag and fell in love. British Racing Green. Neglected, rusted, sad. Paid more than I should have, but everything on her was original and some in good condition.”
I sigh, shake my head, and take a swallow of the whiskey. Yeah, there were other colors I’d liked, but that one car, her classic color, and I saw her potential and how I knew she was mine. Like with Si—
“You insisted on paying more, didn’t you?”
“I’m not ripping some widow off, Princess. It’s wrong.”
“Gran would love you and your damn car.”
“What’s not to love? What’s she like?”
She shrugs. “Nothing like me. She was a real adventuress. A photographer back in the day, she traveled the world and embarrasses the hell out of her only daughter, my mother. She never let a husband and child slow her down. She didn’t neglect, just reversed the roles.”
“Maybe that’s why your mom’s so . . . controlling?” I say, pulling her in closer to me so I can feel the warmth of her.
“Maybe.” Sidney rests her head on my shoulder, her hand coming up to pluck at my T-shirt, like we do this all the time, and yeah, things shift inside me. Her touch, light and fleeting, is a trace of pure fire.
“But,” she adds, “I don’t want them to find me. I want my own adventure. I want to live. And it’s not even like my life’s been exciting until I got here. With the fire, I mean. I’m a graphic artist. I’m designing software for it. I bought a sustainable place.”
“Is that where you’re going?” I ask carefully.
She pauses, then nods against me, and I want nothing more than to brush my mouth against her hair. I want—I need to keep it at the G to PG level here, because otherwise, I’ll strip us both down naked before she’s ready.
It’s gonna happen.
Timing, as they say, is everything.
“Yes.” Her shoulders slump a little. “It’s near enough to Waterman Heights. There are some small towns, but it’s nice and isolated without being difficult to get to and from, and it’s just . . . lovely.”
She sits up a moment. “So, that’s it.” Sidney’s voice is bright. “That’s my story. What’s yours?”
“You know mine. Lived here all my life, own Danny’s, this place. Volunteer. Got some great friends, and my twin’s pretty fuckin’ wonderful, but if you tell him that, I’ll be unhappy.”
