by Ellie Hall
When there’s a midmorning lull, she asks, “How was the date?”
“He hates me. We despise each other.” Neither of those things are true, however, I have to keep up my guard. Leave guys out of my life.
Emma taps her chin. “I was reading an article about the subtle art of flirtation.”
“More like irritation.”
Both women narrow their eyes at me like they know I’m full of beans.
Jeanie straightens. “There is only one person in this world that puts you in a sour mood. Did you talk to your sister today?”
“That would be two people, but yes. She basically asked me to change my birthday.”
“Not a chance. We have big plans for your thirtieth,” Jeanie says, glancing at Emma.
I sling my arms around them. “You’re both the best.”
“Speaking of the best...” Emma says. “The best looking guy in Liberty Lake just rolled by on his motorcycle.”
I swallow thickly. There is no denying that Doug is handsome in a rugged, magazine cover model kind of way—you know the kind with hard muscles dripping with sweat as he lifts something heavy under the sweltering sun. We break apart, each of us discretely fanning ourselves.
But it’s raining and does so for the next few days. I don’t see Doug again until the weekend when he pulls into the parking lot on his motorcycle. I watch through the window as he takes off his helmet and saunters past like a cowboy coming in from a day on the range.
I remain glued there, lost in thought until, from behind me, he says, “Morning, Rose.”
I whip around to find amusement playing in his eyes as if he knows the exact effect he had on me.
“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” I ask politely, trying not to croak.
Laughter dances in his eyes. “You can call me Doug. Yes, please. I was also wondering if you’d like to show me that, um, thing you mentioned the other day.”
It takes me a moment to remember what he said about his passion for cars. “Oh, right. I’ll be here until closing tonight at seven.”
Jeanie rushes through the double swinging doors. “Nonsense. It’s slow right now. I can handle it. Why don’t you two go check out that thing?” She whispers. “What thing?”
“The Vette.”
Doug’s eyebrows shoot up as if he heard.
I shift from foot to foot. I shouldn’t go anywhere alone with that man. Not on a bike or in a car. Not to a bar or to the lake. He’s dangerous. Lethal. The eyes. The lips. The dimple hiding in that scruff. I risk detonating.
Rose go BOOM!
It happened once before with no thanks to Anderson and my sister. It was hard work extracting the shrapnel and putting myself back together.
“Go on. It finally stopped raining. I’ll keep things humming along here.” Jeanie ushers me to the door.
My brows tip with a plea before I remember Jeanie and Christina were in cahoots and set up the blind date between Doug and me.
I’m a woman on my own. No help. No allies.
But perhaps he can help with the lake. If we don’t figure out what’s polluting the water, sunning ourselves on the shore is about all it’ll be safe to do.
“Let’s go,” I say, marching toward the door.
Doug catches up and points to his motorcycle. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“It’s only a short walk.”
“Wouldn’t want any hooligans stealing my wheels.”
“There aren’t hooligans in Liberty Lake.”
Doug angles his eyebrow. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. But not here.”
At that, he passes me the helmet. Our hands brush. Like when we shook the other night, a zing travels through me, warming up my skin on an already sweltering day.
“For your safety.”
Cracking my head on the cement is the least of my worries. This man threatens to undo the careful repairs I made on my broken heart.
Doug gets on the motorcycle and starts it with a roar. “Hop on.”
I hesitantly slide my leg over the seat, keeping a few inches of space between us.
He picks up a foot and rests it on the peg, keeping us in place with his other leg. “Hold on to me.”
I know that’s what I have to do or risk flying off the back when we start moving, but holding on requires I wrap my arms around his well-built frame. The one with the muscles rippling under his T-shirt. The one that’s warm and close and so big, strong, solid...
Leaning forward an inch, I open my arms like a ballerina, still trying not to come into contact with him.
Why am I resisting? Because each time we connect, my resolve loosens. I know myself. When I fall, I fall hard. And there’s no net. No arms to catch me. It’s just me and me alone in Liberty Lake. And that’s exactly how I want it—no guys, no complications. Butterscotch, ice cream, and me.
But a little voice in my head whispers as Doug maneuvers onto the street, Maybe that’s what you think you want, but is that what you need?
6
Some Bunny to Love // Doug
With Rose on the back of my motorcycle, for one silly second, I worry that she thinks I have cooties. Remember that from grade school? It went like, Ew, so and so has cooties! And the members of the opposite sex would run away screaming.
After that, we progressed to chasing each other to express the confusing interest boys had in girls and vice versa.
When the hormone cocktail of the teen years entered the picture, it was all, Does she like me? Should I ask her to the school dance?
I feel like Rose and I went through those three phases of adolescence in a heartbeat. Only, we’re both decades past that.
I gun the engine to see what she’ll do. Her arms tighten, gripping me for dear life.
I tip my head back and laugh.
“That wasn’t funny.” But there’s no letting go. She has my chest in an MMA-level hold. She’s strong from scooping ice cream. But I’m not sure she notices the pounding in my chest—not because of the bike though. More like the way it feels to have her pressing against me and trusting me on the motorcycle.
“I told you to hold on,” I holler back.
We’re hardly going over thirty miles an hour, mostly because the streets around the lake are narrow and you never know when you’ll come upon people walking, riding bicycles, or a random dog sniffing the roadside weeds.
“Next right is my place,” she calls over the engine.
I pull the motorcycle into a little haven on the lake. The shingles on the quaint cottage match the blue at Queen’s Cones. The white trim is sharp. Flowers drip from hangers on the eaves and bloom in window boxes. A broad deck overlooks the water. More flowers, greenery, and whimsical little touches paint a quaint and enchanting picture.
I follow Rose along a stone path to a garage that’s seen a few rough winters and catch her vanilla sugar scent. The rumble in my chest doesn’t let up.
“I take it there’s something with wheels in there.”
Her answer is a teasing smile as she attempts to pull up the rolling door on the garage. “It’s stuck.”
I crouch to give the door a yank and it opens with a creak. “Haven’t opened this up in a while?”
“It’s been five years.”
Sunlight streams into the garage bay, illuminating the outline of a low car. The little boy within jitters with excitement.
Rose pulls a canvas cover off to reveal a pristine, red 1968 Chevrolet Corvette.
The little boy in me goes still in reverence, in awe. I swallow thickly. “This is yours?” I dust my hand along the edge of the hood. “Wow.”
“Yep. Was my grandfather’s. Doesn’t run though. Don’t know what’s wrong. Drove it here. Hasn’t moved since.”
I take it Rose hasn’t either.
“Well, we can fix that.”
“Good luck.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. With cars, it comes down to mechanics. Engineering. Old parts, refurbished parts, new pa
rts. It’s systematic and ordered like connecting dots to make a picture.”
Her gaze drifts to the water as a boat zooms by. “Too bad the lake isn’t like that.”
I step closer. “About that...”
Rose moves to cover the Vette.
My hand presses against hers. “Wait. I imagine the Corvette is lonely all by itself in the garage. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see if I can get it to run. It’s a shame to see a beauty like that hidden away here.”
Her bold brown eyes hold mine. Like with the ice cream and on a few other occasions, I sense subtext. Like there’s more to this conversation than is being said with words.
Rose bites the inside of her lip like she’s debating. Then with a glance at the car, she turns toward the path. “Okay, but let’s talk about the lake first.”
The inside of Rose’s house is tidy—shabby chic with whitewashed wood, eyelet throw pillows, and tastefully mismatched furniture. It’s feminine and charming. A place I could get comfortable.
She fixes us each a lemonade and something bumps up against my foot.
A white and tan bundle of fur with floppy ears twitches its nose at me. “I think the wildlife snuck in.”
Rose’s laugh raises the dial on my speedometer.
“That’s Butterscotch. She’s domesticated. A proper lady if there ever was one. Fully trained.”
I scratch her ears. “Should’ve had a gal like her train up Beauregard. I had a pet rabbit growing up. He left a little trail everywhere he went...”
Rose wriggles her nose. “Are you teasing me?”
I pull out my phone and scroll. “Let’s see. Here he is.” I flash her a photo of eight-year-old me with a missing front tooth holding a French Lop-eared rabbit in my arms.
Rose lights up. “Oh, so cute.”
“Me or Beauregard?”
She nudges me with her elbow, sending a little thrill from the outside in as we step onto the patio. Light streams through the sparse trees and sparkles on the water, but it’s not hard to see it lost its luster.
“So, you wanted to talk about the lake.”
“Harlen to be specific.”
She rubs her hands together like things are about to get juicy.
“I’ve poked around. Asked a few questions. I’m suspicious. Dubious. Something is going on over there, but I can’t figure out exactly what. I thought if we put our heads together maybe we can pin down something solid.”
I don’t mention how I dug deeper into the computer system to assess things. How fluids are missing. Parts billed but not in stock. If there is a connection between the lake and the shop, it goes beyond pollution. I can’t figure it out and don’t want to blow the operation until I have evidence.
“Can you tell me what you know?” I ask Rose.
“I joined the lake committee three years ago. The Oil Change King started up two years ago. That summer, you could say everything was going swimmingly. Water levels were up, the usual tests we do were clean.”
“Nothing unusual?” I ask.
“Not until last summer, when we noticed a slight change. This year, people are already complaining about the lack of fish and the pH is off. When you’re around the lake day in and day out, you can tell when it’s not healthy.” Rose reveals she secretly took additional water samples for third party for testing.
“The results?”
“Not conclusive. I heard from them late yesterday afternoon and they want more samples taken from a variety of places.” She shows me an email on her phone.
“I just had an idea. Do you know how to change your oil?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes. “Would you ask a guy friend if he knew how to change his oil?”
I’d like to point out that she may have just referred to us as friends, which is an interesting development, but I skip it because she’s suddenly on the defensive.
“The question had nothing to do with genders.”
“Don’t talk out your butt.”
My lips twitch. “Don’t talk about my butt.”
She opens and closes her mouth. If we were sparring, I’d have just gotten her in a clinch.
“For your information, no, I don’t know how to change my oil but do know where I can get it done that isn’t a chain like King’s. I prefer patronizing local businesses.”
The way she says my actual last name makes me squirm uncomfortably. I tell her my plan and get to my feet. “Let’s get the Vette running and bring it to King’s for our investigation.”
“Will you be my undercover agent?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
I steal a glance at her, silhouetted in the sunlight, and have the distinct feeling this isn’t going to turn out how I expected it to.
7
Grease Monkey // Rose
Doug finishes his lemonade and then follows me to the garage. Seeing him in my space, a place where no man has ever tread except for a plumber when my water heater died and the two college kids who delivered my couch, makes me feel...different.
Different how? That’s a good question. Kind of pleasant like a sunny day on the lake, but I’m also wary. The weather could turn at any moment. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
He lifts the hood of the Corvette and peers inside, making all kinds of diagnostic hmm, mmm, ah-ha, sounds.
I’m not going to deny it’s kind of cute. So was he in the photo holding Beauregard the bunny. And so is his butt...even though he told me not to talk about it.
The way his jeans hug it...I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.
A little shiver-quiver escapes. I try to play it off like there was a breeze even though the air is dead still. I blame the sweat dotting my hairline on the heat.
He looks me up and down. “I’m going to need some tools.”
“We can look around the garage. I bought it from the previous owner as is.”
“Gotcha.” Doug walks deeper into the garage, brushing away cobwebs and shining the light from his phone. The air cools inside, bringing relief.
I nestle behind him, avoiding the webs for obvious reasons—if you’ve ever spent more than two minutes in a cabin by a lake that hadn’t been lived in for more than a season, you’d know exactly what kinds of creepy crawlies make themselves at home.
When Doug stops abruptly, I startle and then yelp.
He whirls around and braces me with his arms. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Concern flashes in his blue eyes.
I swallow thickly and not because of the spiders. He’s just so close. Barely more than a breath away. This is perilous. More so than my fear of things with eight legs and pincers.
“I’m scared of spiders.” And tall, attractive men who hide dimples under their beards and had childhood pet bunnies.
“I’ll protect you. If you haven’t noticed, I’m quite a bit bigger than a spider.” He winks.
That one move is enough to slay me. I may as well collapse onto my back, wriggle up my legs, and shrivel right here.
“Let’s push the car out of the garage, opening up this area.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, backing up slowly.
Doug matches me step for step as we return the way we came with me moving backward and him holding my gaze steady as I wince when cobwebs dust my skin.
“Look at that. You did great. Now, hop behind the wheel, put the car in neutral, and I’ll push.”
Soon, we have the car in the side yard and a bevy of tools unearthed from the depths of the garage. Doug lies in the grass under the front end of the convertible.
I sigh as I watch him work his wheel-loving magic. For a moment, I daydream about what life could be like if I wasn’t single, alone, and hidden away here like the car.
Could I ever be in a relationship again? Could I trust again?
Still half under the car, Doug’s muffled voice says, “Rosie, do me a flavor and pass me that socket wrench, please.”
“Do you have ice cream on the brain?”
&nb
sp; “It’s hot enough out here.”
I giggle and pass it to him, belatedly realizing he called me Rosie. “Here you go, Dougie.” My lips quirk as the cutesy name slips from my mouth.
We fall into a rhythm, following this routine of Rosie passing Dougie tools and parts as he makes numerous repairs.
At last, he pushes out from under the car and dusts off. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”
I get behind the wheel, put the car in neutral, and turn the key. The fifty-plus-year-old engine roars to life. It’s a miracle and I mentally thank my grandfather.
A smile blooms on Doug’s face, revealing his dimples.
“So, what was wrong with it?”
“You were out of gas.” He squishes up his face.
“I was not.”
“Likely, you were low and the fuel pump needed tickling. The rest may have leaked out. Best I can figure. Found an old gas can in the back of the garage.”
I lunge to clobber him just so I have someone to take out my frustration on but think twice because the fact that the Vette wouldn’t run was one of the main things that kept me here. Had I not, Queen’s Cones wouldn’t exist, I wouldn’t have become part of this amazing community, nor would I have met Dougie.
He leans against the side of car and pulls me closer. The varied shades of blue in his eyes sparkle. The dimples in his cheeks pop. His lips quiver slightly.
What would it take to close the space between us?
Trust. Something I lost a long time ago.
I sink back. Doug lets out a shaky breath.
“You know, after all that hard work, I could go for some ice cream. You have the best waffles cones in the world.”
We head over to the shop and I fix us a sundae then we take a seat outside on the patio as the sun kisses the horizon, painting the sky in bold summer shades of yellow and orange.
Doug takes a bite of the Queen’s Cones Special and closes his eyes before opening them again.
“I’ll make a mental note that you love waffle cones.”
“Just yours, Rose. Just yours.”