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But his smile . . . very fox-like.
Despite the October chill, he’s in a white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the very edge of a tattoo creeping out under the white of the shirt, and a few buttons on top undone.
He’s hot.
He’s hot, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
“Me?” I ask,
“You’ve got a flat.”
Oh. Right. I’ve got a flat. I’m stranded on the side of the road, having a crisis of bad luck and shit timing.
“Yeah.”
“You have anyone coming?” he asks, moving to look at the front driver’s side tire, the one that’s gone flat. I sigh, cracking my door open as I do and stepping out of the car.
“No. I was about to call a tow company,” I say.
“No spare?” he asks, a small smile on his lips.
“Nope.”
“Tow’s gonna cost a shit ton, babe.”
Now, most people in the world would find that offensive, a random person calling them babe, a stranger they’ve never seen before in their life . . . but he’s the type. I can see it. I’ve been working around and with men like him for weeks. It’s not meant to come off as belittling, but just . . . another way to address a woman.
Welcome to Italian-American men in the tristate area.
I just sigh at his words.
“I’ve got a buddy, can pick it up, get it fixed,” he says as I stand beside him, staring at the flat. I swear, it seems like it happened in no time at all.
“I can’t believe this,” I say, ignoring him. “It was totally fine when I left work.”
“A flat can happen in just a few minutes if a nail hits it just right.” He moves his head to look for the culprit before pointing. “Right there,” he says. “Shit luck that it hit where it did. Only takes one hit and a few miles and you’re done.”
“Sounds about right. I have the shittiest luck,” I say with a shiver, staring at the tire. I should be thinking of the bottle of wine I was going to buy today that is so not in the budget now.
But that’s not what has me looking up at the man, forgetting the drama of my tire.
It’s the voice.
I recognize it.
I step back and look up before speaking.
“Do I . . . Do I know you?” I ask and squint a bit as I look him over, trying to figure out where I know him from. A fundraiser? Politics? My old job? My . . .
He smiles sheepishly then moves his hand to the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.
It doesn’t look natural on this man who clearly has confidence for days.
His eyes are on his feet, and I follow the gaze, stopping at his shoes.
$400 shoes.
I know those shoes.
