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Every time I look at her, I feel pure, high voltage electricity running through my veins and want to protect her from whatever's troubling her. Can I possibly keep my hands to myself while we walk on the beach? Jesus Christ. Every muscle in my body tenses.
"Do ya mind if we stop at the car? I want to put this inside." I gesture to the lot with the jacket in my hand.
"Sure. Oh! You have your dad's, ah, what's it called? Wow! Oh my God! Look!"
"The Mercury." We walk toward the 1955 vintage beach wagon, and she makes little noises of excitement that leave me grinning. Her body brushes closer to mine, and on instinct, I gently rest my hand on the small of her back.
Kate's wearing blue Converse sneakers. She practically skips to the car, the sound of her shoes crunching the crushed shells of the parking lot. The lot is across the street from the beach, and the smell of salt air mixes with Kate's perfume. It's like olfactory Viagra for a guy who's spent the last year in a desert.
"Yeah, but it has a different name, doesn't it? You told me once."
"Woody. It's a Mercury Woody."
We reach the old car, and she walks around the front, slowly. Her eyes are huge.
"Wow. I love mid-century modern design. It's so cool, right out of the fifties. Like something Elvis would drive to the beach, with six girls in bikinis all packed in."
"It definitely has that vintage vibe."
"When did your dad finish the renovation? He did an incredible job. It took him all those years, but he finally did it."
"He waited for me to get home, to put the finishing touches on. So, he finished yesterday. We finished yesterday." I follow behind her. It's achingly adorable that she's so interested in a car. She peers at the aqua blue paint.
"It's like the perfect beach machine. Incredible." She bends to inspect the two-tone wood panels on the door, and I force myself to look away from her heart-shaped ass in those jean shorts.
She straightens with a grin on her face. "I remember in high school you would've killed to drive this. You were somad that your dad didn't let you drive it while he worked on it."
I chuckle. "Yeah. I always loved this old thing. He's letting me use it while I'm home. Check out the inside."
First, I open the driver door, and Kate oohs and ahhs over the meticulous restoration of the thin, aqua-colored steering wheel and aqua and white upholstery.
"Your dad's like the coolest guy on the island, you know that? This is something else."
"Don't remind me. Do you know how hard it was growing up with a father who was a former punk rock singer and a successful businessmanandsomeone who had cooler taste than anyone on the island?"
Kate laughs, a sound that lifts the ever-present weight in my chest.
"Check out the back."
I point out the side doors, the perfectly restored floor mats, the gleaming chrome touches on the rims.
We make our way around to the hatch trunk, and I open the top window, then the bottom, showing her the pristine floor mat I'd helped Dad find online.
"We installed the mat yesterday. He was going to put in the original third row of seats, but we took out the second and third rows, figured this would be more practical, having all of this empty space for paddleboards and surfboards and such."
She stands next to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume. It's not what she used to wear in high school. It's more sophisticated and sultry, like cinnamon and a campfire with a hint of jasmine.
The scent makes me want to run my nose over every inch of her body. Dammit, I would have thought I'd learned some control. Still, this is the happiest I've been in months. Years, even.
I launch into a detailed explanation of the things my dad did to the car over the years. "I helped when I could. Bought parts from all over the world, had them sent here. When I came home, I'd help him work on it."
She's staring and nodding slowly. A serious expression descends on her pretty face. Like she's never heard anything more interesting than the intricate details of a vintage car restoration.
I'm talking for so long and trying to ignore my heart hammering against my chest—now beating erratically the more perfume I trap in my nose—that I don't immediately notice that she's looking up at me.
I glance down and give my beard a stroke.
"Oh, no. Am I boring you? Sorry." I grin. "Let's go take that walk on the beach."
