Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(17)

Finally, a small smile touches her lips. “Maybe you can tutor me.” So she has a sense of humor. That or she’s propositioning me.

Remembering Tabbs’s warning and who her husband is, I clarify, “I know engines, not science.”

“Mechanics is a science to some degree,” she counters, setting the textbook down on her lap, closed. “You have to fix cars made by all those manufacturers, all designed differently. Not everyone can do that.”

I know that she’s paying me a compliment, but I don’t take compliments well. So, I do what I always do. I play it off. “Are you saying Boone is smart, then? Because there’s a garage full of guys out there who may argue with you on that one.”

She grins at that. A real, dimple-cheeked grin that makes her eyes sparkle as she watches me. And then a long, lingering silence hangs between us.

I clear my throat. “What are you going to school for?”

“Nursing. It’s my first year.”

“Huh. Really?” When her perfect, thin eyebrows shoot up, I explain, “My sister’s a nurse, so . . . small world.” Amber works long hours with sick and hurt people, some of whom can be real ass**les, from the stories I’ve heard. Honestly, you couldn’t pay me to handle the kinds of bodily fluids she’s had to deal with. You have to be a special type of person to want to do it. A giving, kind person.

I’ve never been accused of being giving or kind. Except by the woman on the side of the road.

And this woman in front of me now? I can’t picture her rolling up her fancy sleeves to help with an enema.

“Is she here in Portland?” she asks, those pretty eyes watching me.

“Nah. Bend.”

She nods once and then begins biting the side of her mouth, her gaze drifting over my coveralls.

“That’s a really nice car out there,” I say.

“It’s too flashy.” The diamonds on her wedding band glitter in protest as she smooths her hand over her hair. “Viktor bought it for me as a wedding gift.” I don’t feel the love when she says his name.

Veering over to the coffee machine, I offer, “Want one?” I know I need one. Plus it gives me an excuse to stay a little longer.

“I’m fine, thanks.” She watches me quietly as I make mine. “I remember you.”

“Yeah?” I stifle my smile as I suck back Colombia’s finest. Do you, really? Because I remember her. I remember the way she smells, the way her lips taste, the way her mouth moved against mine. The way that single kiss held my thoughts long after my head hit my pillow that night. I assume that’s what thirteen-year-old girls act like after their first kiss.

This woman made me act like a thirteen-year-old girl.

“Yes. You’re Jesse, right? We met last week.”

I pause. I never gave her my name at The Cellar. Which means she made an effort to know my name.

I stall as I decide on my answer. Hell, yeah, I remember you sounds a little too forward. You’re the one married to that ass**le who slapped you across the face would probably be considered offensive. True, but offensive. I settle on, “I think the word ‘met’ is a stretch, but, yeah, I was there. I don’t remember us meeting, officially.”

“Luke talks about you a lot,” she says, adding, “and I remember your face. I mean . . . your eyes. They’re very dark and intense.” Her cheeks flush red, wrecking her whole calm and sophisticated persona. In a good way.

“Boone talks a lot, period.” I choose not to address the comment about my eyes. I’ve heard it before; I know they’re dark, even darker than my father’s. I’ve had girls tell me that it makes them nervous when I look at them. I kind of get it. There was a time when I was afraid of my dad, for no other reason than what it felt like to have his dark eyes settled on me.

She nods, smiling. It’s getting harder for me to look away from her. I should be walking out of here and moving on to Miller’s office before he finds me. My feet seem to have planted themselves, though.

“You’ve only come once,” she says.

So you were keeping track of that, too. I shrug. “Not really my thing.”

Her gaze slides over my navy mechanic’s coveralls, heating my blood a few degrees. “No. Not really mine, either.”

I’m hit with a mental image of the sparkly dress, the killer heels, the slathered makeup. “Sure looks like your thing.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” That smile, that glow, flickers and fades with my words, until it vanishes. She glances at the clock on the wall as she swallows. “Are you guys able to fix my car?”

I wish I had a time machine to go back ten seconds. I don’t want to lose that smile. “We need to order a part. You can either leave your car here or bring it back when we call. Depending on how far away you live, the cops may ticket you for driving with a faulty muffler.” I know my dad would. He can be an ass like that. I also know that the rich area she turned off the highway to that night is twenty-five miles from here. “Or I could give you a ride home.” Did I just say that out loud? Miller will have a fit. Fuck it. I don’t care. She needs a ride home and I want to know 100 percent if she’s the girl who kissed me. The one who wants a new life and—this is just a wild guess—to leave her husband. “My car’s not as nice as yours, though,” I warn. Understatement of the century. That ’05 Toyota Corolla has been through hell and back with me. It’s clean, but it’s definitely past its prime.