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She nods. “When I got my CDL,” she says, “They didn’t include any info about how to repair this dang thing.”
I smile. “Did it overheat?”
“I don’t think that’s the issue.” But then she steps back and away from me, changing the subject. “You look…not so great. Britta told me about your trip.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything. I wanted to call or text while I was there, but nothing seemed adequate. There’s so much I need to say, Sophie.”
She frowns. “I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”
“What? When?” I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my call history.
“Yesterday.” Clearing her throat, she waves me away. “It doesn’t matter.” She smooths the front of her pajama top. “I’m doing a story time pajama party today in Fairhill.” She perks half a smile like she’s embarrassed and then chews her bottom lip.
“I need to start coming to story time.” I want her to know how beautiful she is. I’ve missed so many opportunities to tell her that.
She wrinkles her nose. “Except that might be bizarre.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it might be.” I look back at my call history. “I’m not seeing any calls from you yesterday or today. I wonder if it’s because I was in London, and it didn’t go through?”
My mind’s shifting through so many thoughts and wishes that I can barely keep up. But I know she’s trying to get to Fairhill. “What’s wrong with Scott?” I glance around at the neat rows of books, cozy overstuffed chair, and funny book posters. “The inside looks great.” I want to touch her hair, her hand, her lips…any part of her would do.
“It was built when we were still in junior high, that’s what’s wrong with it.” The way she purses her lips together has me cracking a smile.
“Well, let me see.” I head out and down the ramp. “If you’ll turn the engine on,” I shout. “I’ll take a look.”
“Are you an expert on engines?” She joins me outside, her brows raised. She challenges me with a look. There’s something brewing in her countenance.
“My grandpa taught me a few things,” I say. I peer into the engine compartment before glancing at her.
A look I can’t decipher crosses Sophie’s face.
“What?” I ask her. “Why is that so hard to believe?” Before she answers, I start to roll up my already wrinkled sleeves.
“It’s not that hard to believe.”
“So, then why the look?”
A soft sigh trickles out her own vulnerability. “Oliver. You’re not supposed to be able to fix buses.”
“I didn’t say anything about fixing Scott, Soph. All the Sunday nights of my life in my grandpa’s garage wouldn’t prepare me for that.”
“Ouch.” She frowns and pats the hood. “What are you saying about my sweet ride here?”
“It’s not a commentary on your ride—I’m talking about my poor skills. And what did you mean when you said I shouldn’t be able to fix cars?”
She joins me at the engine, and her hip in those attractive pajama bottoms leaning up against the grate. “It’s just that it surprises me when I find out something new about you.”
“Why is that a bad thing?” I can’t look her in the eye. I really want to, but I almost don’t want to know what’s behind her words.
“It’s not bad. Just complicated.”
I wish I could pull her close, but already my fingertips have dirt on them from brushing my hand along the battery. Besides, I need to talk with her somewhere besides the side of the road next to her busted up bus.
“I’ve told you I thrive on complication,” I say.
“Which is probably why Sebastian asked you to go to the U.K.” There’s a heaviness between us.
“Exactly. But if you’d rather me not look at the engine—just look, of course— then I’ll close the hood and call a mechanic.”
