An Accidental Gentleman

by M. Q. Barber

  As she rounded the shelves, Grandpa Jake’s desk leveled an accusing stare. Dust shrouded the surface. Particles drifting down since August formed a snowy film over the train set he’d been tinkering with. Nothing for a specific client, just a set they’d picked up together at a junk sale. He loved working on miniatures. His magnifier waited for hands to swing the lens from the cradle and extend the arm over the tiny engine.

  He’d called before he left the shop that Sunday. Extra time on the projects he loved but rarely indulged, always finishing just one more job for a friend, or a friend of a friend, or a stranger he’d made into a friend in five minutes of talk. She’d teased him about the train never regaining its spark.

  “It’ll keep. We’ll get her running tomorrow. You tell your mom I’ll be over in time for supper, Kitten.”

  But he hadn’t.

  He’d had a heart attack behind the wheel and driven into a drainage ditch in front of a minivan whose driver had called 911. The paramedics couldn’t have arrived in time. The doctor had said so, in her short but kind condolences about how Grandpa Jake hadn’t suffered.

  The shop bell chimed.

  “Be right with you.” The desk would keep. The dust would keep. The anniversary radio wouldn’t. She hustled to her own workbench and set the knobs amid the lineup of parts beside the empty cabinet.

  The wall clock showed five-thirty as she reversed course, empty-handed, and headed out front. Probably a post-work customer, though nothing waited to be picked up tonight. A drop-off or a walk-in.

  She dug deep for a smile. Her loneliness would keep, too. “Hey, if I can help you with any—”

  Brian stood before the counter. He hoisted a picnic basket, an honest-to-God woven basket with dual handles, onto the top. “I brought an apology.”

  “Why the hell are you here?” She clutched the stress ball tucked in her sling. Stretching exercises to work her wrist without overworking it. The doc hadn’t seen her crush the squishy foam into ball bearing size. “I told you not to contact me.”

  A persistent man didn’t have to be a bad thing, but she’d driven off and left him standing in a parking lot, for chrissake. Her tantrum-throwing skills rivaled a toddler’s. One with a driver’s license.

  “You told me not to call or text, and I didn’t.” Frowning, he tracked the strap of her shoulder sling down to the fist sticking out. “No matter how bad I wanted to know how you were. Doesn’t look like nothing.”

  “It’s only a sprain.” An aching nuisance slowing her down all day. The way Brian frowned, best he hadn’t shown up during one of her frustrated fits, when she’d balled up the sling and flung it into the corner where her desk met the wall. Impossible to properly hold small parts and degunk with a bristle brush one-handed. Or to wipe down and pat them dry after. “Work’s still gotta get done.”

  “You’ve got to be the one to do it? Your dad or somebody—”

  “My responsibility.” Dad ran himself ragged with the house calls for the large appliance repairs. Erin slept half the day away after working late shifts at the warehouse. Mom kept everything running at home. As if she could hand the shop over to the girls, who were supposed to be enjoying their summer break but had picked up babysitting and lawn-mowing gigs. Nobody to mind the store and get the orders done except her. “We have a reputation to uphold, you know. Sixty-five years since my grandpa opened the shop. I can’t skip out and do whatever the fuck I want. People depend on us to keep our promises.”

  The stress ball bounced free and rolled across the counter. Past the picnic basket, the neon green slipped over the edge.

  Brian scooped the ball up as it fell. “You keep your promises.” Holding out his hand, he offered her the ball on his flat palm. “I believe you. Let me help you do that.”

  “You don’t know how to rebuild radios.” She snatched the ball with her good hand. She’d meant to be quick, darting out and back, but he curled his fingers in a teasing brush, and she scraped him with her nails as she clenched. She yanked free. Distraction, distraction—“And your dinner will go bad.”

  He patted the basket lid. “Cold packs inside. The food’ll keep.”

  She jerked back from his smile and his certainty. So, so ridiculous to imagine Grandpa Jake had sent him. Working his ghost magic from up in heaven. Believing angels existed at all, let alone meddled on Earth, belonged in the minds of little kids and insane people. Kids, crazies, and schmaltzy movies. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Okay, I don’t know how to do what you do. So tell me.” Charming grin well in place, he shrugged beneath his collared dress shirt, the top two buttons open but the fabric still stiff. “You say what to do, and I do it. You direct, and I’ll tinker. I know how to take orders.” He leaned in, elbows on the picnic basket. “Worked for changing a tire, didn’t it?”

  Who the fuck was this guy who ignored her rudeness, who acted as if they could carry on some hybrid relationship of friendship and romance—fucking romance, Jesus, not even lust relief but picnic dinners. He had to be a trick. He had a game, or an angle, and she hadn’t plucked loose his motive yet. “I ran out on you Saturday. I just swore at you. Why are you still trying to help me?”

  * * * *

  Because his heart beat for her.

  He stuffed the true answer down deep. Telling her he’d never felt this intensity with another woman would upset her. Drive her further from him, to where she pretended their connection meant no more than cock-hardening, pussy-wetting hormones.

  He packed his hopes into a shrug and a headshake. “I told you I’m not giving up on you, Katherine.”

  Even though she trusted him so little—or feared their attraction so much—that he hadn’t been allowed to check on her over the weekend. Wasn’t allowed to know her home address, though that’d been easy to remedy. He’d granted himself only the superficial background snooping available to any idiot with a computer and a rudimentary knowledge of Google. No re-tasking sats.

  She lived with her parents. No shame in it, but he’d run his mouth off about Lucas on Saturday and she hadn’t said a word. He couldn’t apologize for his speechifying without admitting he’d checked up on her. Maybe her folks needed the help, or her granddad’s death had drawn them closer, or she’d been running from a bad relationship. Hopefully not a situation where she’d ended up with her arm in a sling often. He’d sure as fuck nailed worst way to end a first date.

  “I’m sorry about Saturday. You being hurt, that’s on me. Let me make it up to you tonight. Put me to work.” Too close to begging. He dialed back the pleading before his fear of her rejection brought the boogeyman to life. “Look, I wasn’t always a guy who meant what he said. I chased the biggest laughs. Maybe you were hurt by a guy like that once upon a time.” An asshole he’d cheerfully hunt down and beat the shit out of. “But I won’t let you down.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but otherwise she stood still as a poster hung behind the counter. Her navy blue sling cut a swath across the front of her tank top. Orange today, the shirt somehow brought out the glow in her eyes and the deep reddish hues in her hair without clashing.

  He held his tongue. Telling her she looked beautiful when he dumbfounded her would be pushing things.

  She turned away.

  No, no, no. He reeled under the weight of a full-gear pack slamming into his chest. Mission Picnic Dinner: a plan turning out more clusterfuckingly worse than taking her to softball.

  “You coming, or what?” She glanced over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorframe. “You can’t be my left hand from way the hell over there, Brian. Bring your basket. We’ll get to the food when the work’s done.”

  Salvation. He snatched up the handles and barely stopped himself from vaulting across the counter. Standing outside, he’d donned imaginary cold-weather gear for the frosty reception he’d expected.

  Their connection mattered to Katherine. She always left him room for convincing her—first softball and no
w dinner—and she let herself be convinced. With coaxing, her sharp edges were softening into curves molded to his hands. Her heart would follow. Time, patience, and not holding back so far that she went looking elsewhere for satisfaction—those would be the keys to success.

  Shoulders rubbing, they sat on tall work stools with the patient laid out before them. A radio, she’d said, but every delicate bit had to come together from her neat spread of coils, wires, tubes—hell, even an old, swing-arm turntable—and fit into a refinished wood cabinet.

  Hampered by her sling, chafing under what she repeatedly called damn-fool restrictions, she directed him in brisk, bossy tones. But she prized kindness, too, despite her irritation and haste. With gentleness, she adjusted his finger-holds when he misunderstood her directions as she rebuilt the guts piece by piece. Showed him what she wanted while she repositioned things this way and that. The whole time, she talked about what she did and why. Not so much about herself, though he sneaked in a few questions. Her short answers leaned heavily on her granddad’s teaching, a sore spot, judging from how quick her smiles turned wistful. Missing the old man.

  Whenever she rolled her shoulders, he stopped digging for personal details to store away. They had time. He’d learn eventually. If he pushed for emotional intimacy as hard as she pushed for the physical, he’d send her running. So he soaked up her voice and her faint hint of pineapple amid the grease-and-solvent odors under their noses, and he held his tongue.

  Going on seven, the turntable lid lowered into place. No thuds or clicks, thanks to the thin felt bumper around the edge.

  “I bet that baby didn’t look half so good the first time it came off an assembly line.”

  Stroking the side panel, Katherine smiled. “It’s a beauty.” She fiddled with the knobs, and static crackled. “Can’t tell now how broken it got, shut up in a basement all those years.”

  A classic rock station twanged and drummed into existence. The tuner translated nonsense into signal. Fading chords shifted into a new song—longing and love floating on a slow-moving guitar river. Perfect for dancing.

  He extended his hand. “May I—”

  “It’s after seven.” She scurried back from the worktable. “I need to lock up the front. Don’t touch anything.”

  Not touching a thing. Especially not her. And not the wall five feet away where she’d rocked against him, her ass thumping his cock while she rode his fingers. Six days ago. Closing his eyes, he added the soundtrack of her gasps and moans to the radio.

  “Daydreaming?” She spoke beside him, almost in his ear. “I’ll have to dock your pay for that, apprentice.”

  His cock stiffened, but he maintained his cool. Tough to sneak up on a man trained to stay alert, even when said man took a desk jockey analysis post. The tease in her voice, though, fuck. Irresistible, despite instincts reading her move for a deliberate counter to anything deeper than sex.

  “Consider the labor free—in trade for you sharing dinner with me. You don’t want to go out, so I brought the food to you.” He patted the picnic basket with overzealous enthusiasm and flashed slapstick comedy eyebrows. Hell, he’d throw in a fake glasses and nose routine and chomp on a cigar if burying his heart under more layers of laughter helped put her at ease. Whatever she needed to realize and accept that he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Her squinting suspicion lost ground when she gave in and chuckled. “Set up your dinner, then. I need to make a call.”

  She lifted the old-fashioned phone off the wall-mounted base beside the door and dialed. Push-button, not an old rotary, but the handset was the clunky kind from his childhood with the long corkscrew cord perfect for strangling brothers in the kitchen.

  Twisting the cord around her fingers, she swayed in the doorway. “Mom?”

  He set the basket on the cleared space in the center of the floor. Blanket first, a blue-and-gold plaid he’d picked up three aisles over from the deli counter. The checkout gal, old enough to be his grandmother, had thrown herself headlong into helping when he’d sheepishly explained he needed a last-minute picnic.

  Shaken out, the thick blanket covered as much ground as a king-size mattress. Waterproof backing, padded fill layer, soft top. He might’ve gone overboard.

  Katherine stood with her back to him, rubbing her toe against a worn spot low on the door frame. “No, don’t hold dinner for me.”

  Seemed like she’d grown up in this shop. Maybe she’d played jump rope across that coiled phone cord while grown-ups talked. Dragged over the battered metal-and-rubber stepstool to answer the phone in a little-gal voice weighted with big-girl importance.

  “I’m going to grab something and eat in while I finish up.” She twirled, slowly, winding the cord around herself. “Oh, from the drugstore counter up the block, I think.”

  Busted. He laid the cold-cut subs beside the container of macaroni salad—two forks—and bottled waters. Made fresh today, all but the water, and the label promised it’d come straight from a mountain spring. As close to a homemade picnic as his skills allowed.

  Katherine folded her lips over, tucking away the smile filling out her cheeks. “They have those ready-made deli sandwiches. And pasta salad, maybe. I’ll make sure I eat something filling.”

  He moved the basket off the far side of the blanket to hide his own smile. Bristly surface, soft-center Katherine would be slow to admit liking his picnic, if she admitted it at all.

  “I promise, I will if I need you.” She drifted toward the wall hook. The cord untangled as she spun. “Uh-huh. Love you, too. See you tonight.”

  The phone clicked into the cradle. The radio station played a low, rocking beat.

  He patted the wide, empty fabric. Plenty of room for her to sit as far away as she liked. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.” She dropped into a tailor pose, crossing her legs as she sat. “We’re not dating, so you know. This is not a date.” Her furtive glances between the food and his face made her seem spring-loaded. “I’m eating this food because I told my mom I would.”

  “Of course.” Her excuses slid right off him, not least because of how she kept checking his bullshit meter. She’d broken the mechanism with her last whopper. “We’re not dating.” Never mind he’d made history by bringing her a picnic at her office, a first-time event in the annals of Brian’s Guide to Getting the Girl. “You’re just not lying to your mom. I respect that.” He nudged the plastic salad container her way. “Better eat up.”

  She unsnapped her sling and laid it aside. A blue brace supported her left wrist from her knuckles almost to her elbow. “Points for the stylish way you’re trying to get in my pants, though.”

  “What?” Maybe he should tell her to keep the sling on. Or offer her an ice pack from the picnic basket. “Not trying to get in your pants.” Well, fair enough, he did mean to—just not yet. Not until when he did, she promised the first time wouldn’t be the last. “Besides, you’re injured.”

  Bite by bite, she devoured a third of the turkey club. She swigged her water and smiled at him. “I can lie back and think of endorphins.”

  He coughed through swallowing macaroni salad. Christ, she delighted in tempting him to step across the lines he’d set. Sex with her would be one dare after another. “I’d like our first time to rank a few rungs higher than tolerable. At least not registering on the pain scale.”

  Watching him, she chewed through a few more bites. “You say first like there’s going to be a second.”

  “I’m an optimist.” That he wouldn’t choke to death trying to eat a meal with her. The ham and Swiss on rye went down easier than the slippery pasta.

  Katherine picked at the salad. She raised her fork with a single noodle and wrapped her mouth around the plastic, overlooking the less-than-full serving. “I haven’t.”

  Backtracking gave him nothing. “Been an optimist?”

  “Been hurt by an ex who lied to me or broke his promises.” She laid her fork tines-down on the lid.
“That’s what you think, right? Some guy broke me and you can fix me. Because you’re a nice guy. Mr. Fix-it.”

  “I don’t—” want to fix you. He wanted to understand her. But maybe, kind of, yeah, to fix her. To ride in all white-knight and be the hero like Sherwood instead of the Michigan Surfer Boy. Shit. No wonder he’d avoided relationship complications before. “I want to get to know you. Why you are the way you are. Is that so bad?”

  “Why I am—” Her laugh echoed to the metal crossbeams in the ceiling. “Jesus. A woman can’t enjoy sex just because she does?”

  “No, you can, I want you to.” Nope, making things worse. “I, not that I’m giving you permission, or—fuck.” Taking a deep breath, he reached for the calm center of the shooting range. The peaceful pause before the punch in the boxing ring. “You’re angry about sex, or dating, and I want to understand what makes you so defensive. Secretive.”

  With a quiet snort, she tipped backward and lay with her knees up and her arms folded across her stomach. “Yeah, because the reaction from society is so fucking positive. A woman who likes sex is still a slut.” She snipped the “T” in a hard bite. “Even people who don’t say it are thinking it.” She stared at the ceiling. “You are.”

  Christ, he’d done more than given her the wrong impression. He’d landed in the lump of sad sacks who cast judgments while they sampled the forbidden fruit. “I’m not, I swear I’m not. I just—the guys you’ve been with, none of them hurt you?”

  “No.” She sighed, and the snap in her voice softened. “I’ve always been in control. They were my choices, Brian.”

  He pushed the food aside and settled on his elbow beside her. “Then I don’t care who or how many. They don’t matter to me or change what I think of you.”

  “My sister…” She flinched. “She married her high school sweetheart. Two weeks after graduation, both of them eighteen and dumb as fuck.”

  Ouch. Her bitterness stung sure as a smattering of BB pellets on unprotected skin. He’d received the full blast more than once, courtesy of his older brother’s teenage stupidity. Katherine’s brother-in-law could’ve gotten the marriage version from one angry dad. “Shotgun wedding?”