“Where can I get one?”
Beer Belly huffed, squinted, and pointed at a brown trailer thingy off to the side. “There’ll be one in there, I figure. The boss won’t be, though. He’s not bird-doggin’ today. Today, he’s getting sweaty. You get your lid, I’ll scare up the boss.”
“Boss who?”
He laughed, showing a couple of missing teeth on his left side. “Who you’re lookin’ for, little dime.” Then he turned from her and walked off, and Manny went to the trailer.
There was a young, skinny guy at a metal desk in the air-conditioned trailer. He looked up, his features shaping into a look Manny read as surprise as he took her in. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yeah. I’m here to see Luca. Guy out there said I needed a hat thing.”
He gave her a different weird look. “You here on business? Because I don’t have you on the schedule.”
“No, not business. Personal.” Damn, this was a stupid move. Why had she stopped? Why did she even want to see him? And why the fuck was she trying so hard to do so?”
Then he grinned a grin that even Manny understood. He thought she was there for a fuck. This really was a mistake.
He pointed to a shelf bolted to the wall, on which were stacked several red plastic hats. “Ones to the left are smaller. Take one of those. You want me to ping him?”
She didn’t know what that meant, so she said, “No, thank you,” took a hat, and went back outside.
Luca was walking toward the trailer as she stepped off the little metal steps. She’d basically seen his entire body already, but he still looked wicked hot walking toward her, shirtless and sweaty, in faded jeans, boots, a leather tool belt slung across his hips, and his own red hardhat.
Holy geez.
She read his expression as perplexed. “Hey, girl. You got a problem?”
Why was she here? “Um, no. I just…just…I wanted to thank you. For last night. You were nice.”
He cocked his head. “I said last night, there’s no need for thanks.”
“Okay, well. Then I want to apologize for…all that.”
“No need for that, either.” He reached out, and she steeled herself for his touch, but then he stopped and dropped his hand. “You okay, little bit?”
His last words made her think of something Beer Belly had called her. “What’s ‘dime’ mean? That other guy called me ‘little dime.’ Should I be pissed?”
At that Luca laughed, throwing his head back. It was a nice, deep, full sound. “He did, did he? Well, whether you should be pissed depends on how you feel about being objectified.”
“Please?”
“He was calling you a ‘ten’—like on a hotness scale, one to ten. You got yourself an admirer.”
Oh. Gross. And then her mouth ran off with her brain. “Only one?”
He’d been smiling; now he stopped. “Did you come for anything else?”
She’d thought he was one to lay all his cards out, but now she could tell he was doing what everybody else on the planet did, and tucking them away. Damn, she hated that. But it was stupid of her to try to flirt. She didn’t even know why she was doing it, and for the first time, she felt ashamed that she’d tried to get with him last night. That had been a kind of apology/thanks gesture, but she’d wanted him, too. For herself.
She usually didn’t feel ashamed of taking sex when she wanted it. She needed to be in control of all that, she was fucking useless at the mating rituals, so she just came right out and said what she wanted. If the guy didn’t want it, then fine, whatever, at least everybody knew where everybody stood.
She hardly ever felt shame, period. Probably because she was usually too confused about what would have been ‘appropriate.’ Regret, yes. She sometimes felt that. But not shame.
But now, suddenly, she was ashamed.
“No. Just thanks and sorry. Have a life, or whatever.” She took off her little red ‘brain bucket,’ tossed it to him, turned on her heel and stomped back to her car.
About ten feet from that safe space, Luca’s big hand came around her arm. She yanked free reflexively and spun around to see him take a step back, his hands up in front of him. The letters of the tattoo across his ridged belly seemed to glitter through the perspiration over his skin.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. How old are you, Manny?”
It didn’t occur to her to consider such a question rude, or to be coy about her answer. “Twenty-eight. You?”