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I shift my gaze to the other guy who’s climbed out of the back seat of a car that costs more than I’ll probably make in a lifetime. He’s big, too, in his early thirties, if I had to guess, but not hulking like his companion. Tall and lean in dark-wash jeans, his broad shoulders fill out a navy sports coat and crisp white cotton shirt. It’s open at the neck, showing tanned skin. I figure he must spend lots of time on a golf course to get a tan that deep. Like his friend, he’s wearing black steel-toed work boots, which for him, oddly doesn’t feel like a style choice so much as a life choice. Unlike his friend, he doesn’t smile as he scans me and the tire in my dirty hands. A shock of dark hair falls over his forehead. When he slides his shades into his jacket breast pocket and locks his gaze on mine, my breath stalls.
He doesn’t stop at Drooly’s howl, but ambles up to me and hunkers down, assessing the situation. “The tires on these old cars are a pain, aren’t they?”
Straight, white teeth flash against the healthy glow of his skin before his lips return to their serious pose. He doesn’t seem the type to smile all that often. This man is self-contained, his confidence resonating from the inside rather than projecting outward. He seems comfortable in his own skin, which makes me feel more comfortable around him. It’s telling that Drooly’s crouch is submissive as she wriggles closer to greet him.
The tension in my shoulders relaxes a little. “Not usually. I have a special tool at home that compresses things, makes it easy. I should have brought it with me.”
He nods and stares off in the distance for a second. “How far you going?”
“No offence, but…why’re you asking?”
One side of his mouth twitches, and I’m curiously disappointed when it doesn’t turn into another quick smile. “If it’s not far, Taylor could run get it for you.”
“Oh.” My breath leaves me in a relieved rush. “Thanks, but I’m almost done.”
He leans in to take a closer look at the tire. Clean body wash or cologne wafts toward me. It’s fresh and masculine, not sweet or perfumy like some guys like to wear. But I guess if you can afford to drive a Maybach, you can afford the good smell-‘em, as my grandmother used to call men’s cologne.
Drooly leans against me on the other side. She wants a whiff of the man, too. She sneezes, and leaves a slobbery deposit on the top of the man’s head.
He reaches up a hand, which comes away goopy. His jaw flexes, and he casts the adoring dog a wry glance.
“Yikes. Sorry about that.” I sigh and unwind the rag from around my neck so he can wipe his hair and hands with it. “Back up, menace.” I give the hundred-twenty-pound canine on my right a shove.
At the same time the man rolls back on his haunches, away from me.
“Oh!” It isn’t particularly warm outside, but my face feels like it’s on fire. “I was talking to the dog,” I mutter, giving her the evil eye. She whines.
He flashes the quick smile again, with a rueful chuckle. “Guess he wanted a closer look, too. Am I his next snack?”
“He’s a she, and you’re more in danger of her drowning you than devouring you.” I straighten Drooly’s chocolate-brown oversized bib and point to its bright-pink writing. “See?”
He scans the text. “Slobber Swabber. Clever. What’s her name?”
I lift the terrycloth tie around her neck and swipe it along her jowls. “Granddad named her Julie, but I usually call her Drooly.”
“Drooly-Julie. Yep. Sounds right.” He reaches across me and rubs behind Julie’s ear. She leans into it, tail thumping on the ground. “Pretty friendly watchdog you got there.”
With a snort, I pat her flank. “Her bark is definitely worse than her bite.”
Julie stands and strains against the leash when he takes his hand back. She bays a protest. Taylor groans.
Maybach Man ignores them both. “I’m Ash. Taylor and I are on our way to the car show in Denver. Looks like you might be taking your vintage Ford there, too.”
“Soon as I finish mounting this tire.” I try stuffing my fingers along the inside of the tire again, to little avail.
Taylor steps up behind Ash. “I’ll be happy to help, ma’am.”
If my thin fingers can’t tuck between the liner and the tire, there’s no way his huge fingers can. “I’ve almost got it,” I lie. “Oh, and I’m Charlie, please.”
“All our tools went on the truck with our show cars, didn’t they?” Ash asks Taylor over his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t suppose you carry any baby powder in your shaving kit?” Ash adds.
Taylor’s brows threaten to migrate into his hairline. “No, and no cornstarch or flour, either, so don’t bother asking.”
Ash clicks his tongue. “Looks like we’re not much help, Charlie.”
