Cinnamon gum—that’s what Carter smells like.
By the time I process that, the quiet of the ranch is being polluted by a cacophony of catcalls, wolf whistles, and good, old-fashioned applause. I blink at our audience, half in a daze.
My brain is so addled, I register details one at a time.
First, I’m still on Carter’s lap, and hello, I like it here.
Second, his hands are still around my waist, and yep, I like that too.
Third, Jessa is currently scowling at her brother, looking like she’s going to whack him over the head with her ultra-trendy succulent bouquet. “Let go of my best friend, Carter,” she commands.
“Sorry,” he whispers before he releases me, an unrepentant smirk on his face. “I tried.”
I stumble to my feet, pulling away from Carter, and make my way to the troupe of rather disgruntled-looking single women. In fact, the only ones who don’t look jealous of my little impromptu lip-lock with the legendary Carter Dalton are related to him.
Jessa flashes me an apologetic look—a my-brother-is-an-idiot-but-what-can-I-do? look—and then turns around, preparing for the toss. I stand here, trying to act nonchalant about the whole thing even though my knees are still wobbling. (What’s that, wedding spectators? It’s no big thing. Hot guys kiss me all the time.)
I don’t think I pull it off, though, because the bouquet flies out of nowhere and smacks me right in the face.
2
“It could have been worse,” I tell Addison, handing her a bag of frozen peas for her eye. We’re in the parking lot of a small grocery store in my fully restored ‘79 K20 Chevy Silverado, and she’s sitting on the tailgate in that ridiculous, fluffy dress—looking a little too much like a classic pinup girl for my sanity.
“How?” she mumbles, pressing the frozen vegetables to her face. Either Jessa can toss a mean bouquet or succulents are wicked, because a light bruise is already showing up along her cheek.
“It could have been a cactus bouquet.”
Okay, kissing her was a sleazy thing to do—I acknowledge that. But Addison was sitting there, looking awfully cute in that dress that should be atrocious but happens to show off a figure I have no business noticing, and I was still irked that Lindsey up and bailed on me. Plus, Addison came right out and admitted she was feeling bad about not having a date, and I wanted to cheer her up.
Why she didn’t have a date is beyond me. Everything about Addison is sweet, from her heart-shaped face and big green eyes to her strawberry blonde hair. Is she hot? Not really. That’s not her style—but cute works for her. If it weren’t for the fact that her dad/my boss would castrate me if I dared ask her out, I would probably make a move myself.
Well, technically, I did make a move.
But it wasn’t a real move. What happened back at the wedding wasn’t anything—Addison knows that. It was over before it began, and our lips only touched for a fraction of a second. If I were going to kiss her, really kiss her, it wouldn’t be in front of an audience. That was just for fun.
A stray thought pops into my head: maybe I should kiss her again now that I’ve got her alone.
Thankfully, I come to my senses and decide against it.
I lean against the tailgate, staring into the parking lot. “Hey, about the—”
“If you say kiss, I will beat you to death with this bag of peas.”
I grin, unable to help myself even though I know I’m only going to dig the hole deeper. “Kiss.”
She turns to me, glaring with one good eye.
“Aw, come on,” I say, nudging her shoulder. “I was just messing around. Are you gonna forgive me?”
“Maybe,” she grumps, but I can tell I’ve already won her over. “Or maybe I’ll tell my dad, and he’ll fire your sorry self.”
Gary would, too. He’s crazy protective of his not-a-baby-anymore baby girl, probably a product of raising her by himself. Half the guys in the shop are in love with her, but if we even think about getting close, we’re gone. And, yeah, any one of us could find another job working in your average body or mechanic shop, but Kentford’s is the dream.
People come from all around the country for a Kentford restoration. Gary’s been featured on all the automotive channels, in all the magazines. He’s a legend.
I got in when I was sixteen because of my connection to Jessa and worked as a wash boy until I graduated high school, drooling over the cars that wheeled their way through the shop every week. Now I specialize in fabrications, am working shoulder to shoulder with one of the best in the business, and there’s no way I’m going to shoot myself in the foot by chasing after the boss’s daughter. I’m not always the brightest crayon, but I’m not a moron.
Well, not a complete moron.
I give her a sideways look. “Are you going to tell him?”
Addison wouldn’t run to Gary about something trivial like this—that’s not her style.
She rolls her eyes…eye. “Yeah, that sounds like a fun conversation.”
Though I wasn’t particularly worried, I relax a little when I get the confirmation.
Addison sighs and lowers the bag of peas, turning her cheek toward me. “How bad is it?”
The bruise is already spreading, and the whole area is slightly swollen. “You look like a sexy prizefighter,” I say. “Very hot.”
She shoves me away like I’m an idiot, but she can’t quite hide her smile.
* * *
Freaking imports suck to work on, and somehow, I got stuck with one this morning. Larson’s got a Thunderbird on the lift, so I’m under the car the old-fashioned way, using jack stands. I’m covered in grease and about to throw the creeper across the shop because the left front wheel keeps dragging.
I mutter words that would make my grandma roll in her grave, and all I can think about is the greasy cheeseburger I’m going to grab for lunch if I can ever get this filthy, piece-of-trash timing belt replaced.
It’s as I’m here, with the belt half installed, that I hear my sister’s voice echo through the shop.
“Addison?” she calls, her shoes clicking on the concrete floor.
Jessa has been gone a week, honeymooning in some fussy bed and breakfast in Louisiana. She and Franklin got back yesterday evening according to the text I received from her this morning.
“She’s in the office with Lydia,” Stan tells her.
“Hi to you too,” I holler from underneath the car.
The clickety-click of her shoes gets louder as she makes her way to me, and then she kicks my leg. “Whatcha working on?”
“Timing belt.” And I almost have it.
“You’re back!” Addison exclaims from the vicinity of the office.
The usual girl-squeals and gossip follow, and I roll my eyes.
I finally get the belt installed, and I roll out from under the car, muttering to myself when the creeper catches halfway. My stomach lets out an impatient rumble, and I walk to my workbench and grab a rag, about to announce I’m leaving for lunch. As I clean up, I half listen to my sister’s conversation with Addison.
“You’re not going to believe what I found in this crazy cute little antique store in New Orleans,” Jessa says.
Isaac wanders to my station and leans against the workbench. Under his breath, he jokes, “What poor schmuck gets stuck antiquing on his honeymoon?”
I shoot my friend a look, reminding him he’s talking about my sister.
“Look.” Jessa then pulls a magazine from the odd stack of papers she’s holding in her arms and shoves it at Addison.
Addison frowns. “What is it?”
Jessa all but rips it back, flips through half the pages, and then pushes it into Addison’s hands once more.
“It’s a dating guide,” Addison says slowly. “From the fifties?”
“Yes.” Jessa nearly bounces with excitement. “Some of the suggestions are just awful, but a lot are really fun. It gave me an idea.”
Addison glances up, looking understandably
wary. “How so?”
“Do you remember three Thursdays ago, right after lunch but before we went to have our nails done, you mentioned you wished you had a boyfriend?”
She what?
“No…”
“Well, I do. And do you remember how you were saying it would be great if you were dating someone so we could go on double dates?”
“Actually,” Addison says, trying to hide a smile as she pushes a long strand of hair that escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “I think that was you.”
“Either way.” Jessa waves a hand. “I’ve got the solution. I scoured the internet, looking at all the dating guides from the last twenty years. Then I combined them with that article, and I’ve got a foolproof plan to get you a guy.”
And then my crazy sister whips out a piece of yellow legal-pad paper and dangles it in front of Addison.
“27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend,” Addison reads, her eyes widening. “Please tell me you didn’t spend your honeymoon making this.”
Jessa smirks. “Franklin had to recoup.”
I groan, pretending to gag, but the guys around us laugh. They’ve abandoned their projects and are hovering like a bunch of hens.
“I don’t know, Jessa,” Addison begins just as I say, “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Addison turns to me, and a frown dances across her face. The bruise from the succulent attack has either faded, or she’s good with makeup, because both of her cheeks are a pretty pinkish color.
“I don’t think it’s necessarily lame,” she argues, though it’s obvious she’s only trying to spare Jessa’s feelings.
“You don’t need some stupid list to find a boyfriend, Addison.” I turn away, tossing the rag in a bin, done with the conversation.
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, Carter, guys aren’t exactly knocking down my door.”
The garage falls quiet. We all know why Addison doesn’t get asked out. Every guy in town is terrified of her father, us most of all. Gage has been drooling over her since he started three years ago. So has Isaac. Tad’s only twenty-one, but he’s got a thing for her too.
And me…well, I don’t feel that way, though I can acknowledge the allure. But Addison is like an honorary little sister—sort of. I mean, it’s not creepy to think of getting close to her—and that kiss from the other day was all right. And I might have pictured getting her into the back of my truck a time or ten, kissing her for real, staring at the night sky together and doing all that sappy couple crap, but so what?
That’s just because I’m a single guy, and she’s in that back office day after day, getting in my head. It doesn’t mean anything.
When I don’t answer, Addison says to Jessa, “You know what? Why not?”
I grunt, thinking there are too many females in the shop right now.
“Yeah?” Jessa asks, excited. She always has liked a project; I just don’t like the idea that Addison is going to be one of them.
“Yeah,” Addison answers, and though my back is turned, I swear she’s looking right at me. “How do we start?”
3
“We can just go ahead and cross three of these off right now,” I say to Jessa from the comfort and privacy of the back office—away from Carter and his lovely opinions. Technically, I share the office with my stepmother, but she went to lunch early with my dad and thank goodness. Dad wouldn’t love the list.
Let me tell you, working with family is tricky. Everyone is in everyone’s business when you’re smashed together, day after day after day—even when you’re a grown woman. Good grief, all eleven of the restoration guys are in my business, and they’re not even related. Some of them, like Stan, our head paint technician, have been around since I was a tot, so they might as well be family.
We’re a pretty close bunch—working on a small number of projects at a time, racing the clock with each one, will do that to a group. You might be wondering why I don’t leave, find a different job. I’ve thought about it before, believe me. But this is home, and you don’t turn your back on family, even for the sake of your sanity. Plus, I love it here.
Car restoration is part of me, I guess. Weird as that might be considering I don’t actually work on the cars myself. I love to see the neglected classics trailered in, dented and covered in rust, and then leave looking better than the day they rolled out of a dealership.
Other people like it too. That’s why our customers come from all around the country and cough up the big bucks to have us work on their prized possessions.
“That one is cute,” Jessa protests as I draw a line through Number Twelve: Wear a pin that says you’re single. (Don’t make them guess!)
“It’s not happening.”
“No!” Jessa whimpers when I cross off Number Twenty-three: Try online dating. “That’s one of the better ones.”
Without responding, I cross off Number Ten: Rent a room to a handsome young doctor paying off his med school bills.
My best friend shakes her head and huffs out an annoyed sigh. “I really liked that one.”
“Yeah, but it’s oddly specific—not to mention way too risky. Besides, knowing my luck, even if I found a doctor who wanted to rent a room from me, he’d probably end up having a girlfriend.”
She shrugs, though she doesn’t look convinced.
I sigh, sitting back, browsing the rest of the ideas. Half of them are ridiculous, but I suppose they’re doable. Some are easy, like:
4. Visit dog parks. (Don’t be afraid to borrow a dog if you don’t have one!)
6. Stock your fridge with his favorite drinks and snacks.
24. Remove overly feminine decor from your living room.
Others are pretty dated, like:
11. Sew your own dress. (Show him you’re thrifty!)
22. Accidentally-on-purpose stumble into his arms. He’ll feel like a knight in shining armor when he catches you!
The comforting noises of banging, clanging, sanding, and cutting drift to me from outside the office, and I focus on those as I wonder if I’m actually going to do this.
To be honest, I was going to let Jessa down gently, as I have with her other wild ideas in the past, but something about Carter’s tone, not to mention the look on his face, made me agree. Arrogant man. Sure, he has no trouble finding a date, but that doesn’t mean it’s so easy for the rest of us. After all, there’s a reason articles like the ones Jessa found have been circulating women’s magazines since the fifties.
The list lies on the desk, taunting me. It does seem ridiculous, but I can’t back out now, not when I agreed to it right in front of Carter.
“Where do I start?” I finally ask.
“Let’s just go down the list,” Jessa says, and I don’t miss the mournful way she looks at the three I crossed out.
Rolling my eyes, I read Number One: Take a cooking class. Meet a man who’s good in the kitchen!
I shoot Jessa a look. “I hate cooking.”
Top Ramen, hard-boiled eggs, and frozen vegetables that steam in the microwave are about as gourmet as I get.
“All the more reason to find a man who enjoys it,” she says.
Well, I can’t argue with that logic.
“I’ve signed you up for an Italian cooking class that begins on Friday night at the community center on Main,” she says. “Be there at seven.”
“You signed me up already? What if I didn’t agree to this little experiment?”
She grins. “It’s your birthday present—you’re welcome. Now you can’t bail because I spent good money on it.”
I half laugh, half groan as I rub my temples, wondering what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into.
“You realize my birthday isn’t for months, right?”
“That’s completely beside the point. Listen, I have to get to work,” Jessa says, already backing out of the office. “Study the list. Memorize the list. Any chance you have to sneak something into your everyday life, go for it—even if it’s out of order.”
/> “Yes, Master Yoda.”
She gives me a solemn nod. “You’re a good padawan. I’m going to have you married in no time!”
“Married?” I jerk my head up, my mouth open to protest, but she’s already out the door, off to spread her unique Jessa joy with the rest of the world.
* * *
I’m such a loser, I think as I rest my head against the steering wheel of my car.
It’s Friday night. I’ve parked just a block from the community center, and I’m wearing heels and a tight sweater (Number Seven: Wear high heels—they give you confidence! and Number Fourteen: Wear fitted sweaters often—they make your figure look great!). Pretty sure Jessa tweaked that last one a bit.
“You can do this,” I tell myself. “No one in there is going to know you dressed up for a cooking class. No one is going to know you’re only taking a cooking class to find a boyfriend.”
I groan, knowing I’ve nearly talked myself out of it.
My phone chimes with a text, and I don’t have to be psychic to know it’s from my best friend. With my forehead still on the wheel, I dig through my purse.
Get in there, the text says, and yep, it’s from Jessa.
Here I go.
I’m not a terribly outgoing person—probably part of the reason I’m still single—so I’ve never done something like this before. I walk through the front lobby, pausing to figure out which way to go. I must look lost because the woman at the information desk along the back wall comes to my rescue.
“Go past the gymnasium and take a left in the hall,” she says, motioning me forward like a flight attendant, “and then you’ll reach the kitchen.”
“Great, thanks.”
I adjust my purse strap and concentrate on not slipping on the tile floor. Outside of weddings, I don’t wear heels all that often, and this stuff feels slick. Thankfully, I make it to the door without an incident. There’s a printout on the window that confirms this is the place, and I walk inside.
27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend Page 2