An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(31)

She smiles warmly, the apples of her cheeks rosy and round, reminding me of pink azaleas. I nod, traipsing toward the main entrance and sending her a wave. “Absolutely. Give Snickerdoodle a belly rub for me since I missed her today. I hope her vet appointment goes well.”

Swallowing her bite of cookie, Vera waves back. “I’ll shoot you a text later with an update—it’s a miracle that donation came in so we could front her surgery cost,” she smiles. “Make sure you relax at some point, hon.”

“One of these days!” I call back over my shoulder before stepping out into the parking lot.

It’s the last week of September—officially fall—and there’s something in the breeze today that makes me feel nostalgic. It’s funny how that happens sometimes. There’s no exact recollection that springs to mind, no precise moment, but it feels like I’m lost to a memory I can’t quite pinpoint.

It’s sort of like déjà vu, but instead of feeling rattled, I feel warm.

My soul feels warm.

Today it’s the tickle of an autumn breeze that lightens my steps and fosters my smile as I make the thirty-minute drive to the shop with the window cracked. As I curve into the parking lot, I note that Cal’s bike is already sitting alone and idle in one of the empty spaces.

The fuzzy feeling is still burrowed deep inside my chest when I hop out of the car and make my way inside, the jingle bells complementing my mood. “Cal?” I look around for him, peeking inside his office, then checking the break room. He’s nowhere to be found, so I push through the service door and glance into the bays. “Cal?”

Finally, his muffled voice trails over to me from what looks to be the storage room. “In here,” he says. The door is half open, a singular bulb that dangles from a string providing lackluster illumination to the familiar shadow I see moving back and forth.

Realizing I look like a scrub, I swipe more cat hair off my black leggings and readjust my oversized sweater that falls mid-palms. My hair is a day past due for a wash, pulled up into a giant bun and riddled with dry shampoo, and my face is sans makeup, save for a shoddy mascara application and my berry lip balm.

I’m pretty sure I smell like a kennel, so I panic on my trek over to him and douse myself in the bottle of grapefruit-scented hand sanitizer I purchased for the guys that they have noticeably ignored.

“Lucy,” he bellows, poking his head out. “Over here.”

“Coming,” I tell him, slathering the sanitizer all over my neck, collarbone, and arms while I break into a jog. “Sorry. I’m not exactly prepared.”

Cal scratches at his overgrown stubble, squinting at me when I approach. “Prepared for what?”

To see you.

“Work.”

“You look good to me.” He says it casually, easily, his eyes raking over me in a gradual pull, landing on my cap toe ballet flats, then drawing back up. Blinking, he adds, “You smell like a medical exam room. And Vitamin C.”

I give him a strained laugh and tug on my topknot. “So, what did you need?”

Hesitating, he makes a humming noise before swiveling around toward a wall of shelving units stocked with mechanical parts. The storage room is small, so I instantly feel swallowed up by his body heat and earthy man smells as he ushers me farther inside.

“I’m working on a friend’s car today. She was in a bind, and I was already here, so I offered to take a look at it. Problem is, I was here combing through inventory so I can get an order in tomorrow. Don’t really want to be here all night, and was hoping you could take over. I’ll pay you double time.”

All I hear is “she.”

Scraping my bottom lip between my teeth, I bob my head, perusing the stockpile. I should be asking what the hell an ignition magneto is, but the question that blurts out of me is, “Whose car?”

“What?” Cal’s shoulder blades stretch the thin material of his tank as he reaches up to an upper shelf and starts rummaging.

“The car,” I clarify, trying to look nonchalant by swinging my arms back and forth as I skim the middle shelf. “The one you’re working on today.”

He falters, his hand mid-reach for a dusty box. Forgoing the item, he spins around to face me, his eyes glinting with curiosity beneath the tungsten lightbulb. There’s a shadow of a smirk on his face. “Why?”

Crap—he’s on to me.

“Just wondering,” I shrug.

“I told you, she’s a friend.”

“Okay.” I start whistling because whistling makes a person seem disinterested. Totally cool and composed. Not at all fishing.

Cal swipes his thumb and index finger over the corners of his mouth, almost like he’s trying to eradicate any trace of a smile. “She’s one of my mistresses. From the harem that I have.”

It takes a beat for me to realize that he’s teasing.

Cal hardly lets his guard down and jokes with me—or anyone for that matter—but on the rare occasion he does, it always shoots a giddy pitter-patter to my heart.

My lips press together to hold in the laugh as I attempt to maintain my composure. “Cool.”

“Her name’s Jolene.”

“Pretty name.”

“She is pretty. My favorite out of all my lovers.” He crosses his arms, head tilting to the side. “I have dozens.”