Truth or Beard(82)

“—to an extent.”

He smile-scowled at my use of his earlier words, then shook his head like I was a nut. “Fine, I’ll meet you downstairs, Princess. We’ll be changing a tire first.”

I gave him two thumbs up. “Sounds good, Red.”

His scowl deepened, but so did his smile as he turned toward the door and yanked it open. I heard him mutter as he left, “Maybe after we can go find a lake.”

***

We changed four tires. The shop had one of those high-powered thingamadoodles, yet he insisted we do it the old fashioned way—with a carjack and a tire iron.

Next, he showed me how to check the oil and various car fluids, remarking on the differences between several makes and models, like the fact old VW Bugs’ engines were air-cooled and didn’t have radiators. I was having fun, mostly because watching Duane in his element was fun.

I realized Duane Winston loved cars. He loved how they worked, how each car was different, nuanced, a puzzle to be solved. And he told me more stories about nutty customers that made me laugh even though I couldn’t quite follow them. One was about a man whose air filter was sucked into the throttle body, and another described a customer who added eight quarts of oil to his four-cylinder engine because the dipstick looked dry, except at the tip.

Some of the terms he used—like throttle body—made me press my lips together, avert my eyes from his big hands, and fight a blush. I’d never realized before, but automotive speak was ripe with inadvertent sexual innuendos, like manifold couplings, dipstick, and lube.

Or maybe I just had a dirty mind.

Or maybe it was just Duane. Perhaps his mere presence did things to my throttle body.

Or maybe some combination of the three.

Whatever the issue, I was feeling hot under the collar of my oversized coveralls and had to unzip them to my chest, surreptitiously fanning myself after he’d used the phrases drive shaft and push rod in the same sentence. While I fanned myself, I walked over to a stereo sitting on a well-lit table. Small, greasy machine parts covered the surface of the table, making me think the car part was either being disassembled or reassembled.

I switched on the stereo to CD mode and pressed play, curious to see what had been playing last. To my astonishment, the cool harmonic melodies of The Beach Boys filled the air.

I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane watching me with not quite a smile, though his eyes were glittery.

“The Beach Boys?”

“That's right.” He nodded once and strolled to where I stood, wiping his hands on a rag and stuffing it in his back pocket. He’d changed into a set of coveralls, too. However, his fit, were old with faded grease stains, and had his name embroidered over the left side. “Everyone likes the Beach Boys, at least that’s what my momma used to say. Everyone likes the Beach Boys and pie.”

I grinned, because Bethany Winston was right. Well, she was right about me at least. I liked the Beach Boys and pie.

I turned to face him and he stopped in front of me, smirking as he studied my appearance. I was pretty sure I had grease on my face, probably my nose, and several smudges on the new coveralls. I likely looked a mess. Yet Duane seemed to like what he saw because his eyes grew warm with what looked like affection.

“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.

I placed my hand in his as chords from Fun, Fun, Fun played over the stereo’s speakers. To my delighted surprise, Duane pulled me into a dancing hold and proceeded to swing dance us around the garage.

I was so shocked at first I’m sure I stepped on his toes and did more stumbling than dancing. But the steps I’d learned in college during my two-week swing dancing phase quickly came back to me—probably because Duane was an exceptional leader—and soon we were moving together in a way that felt effortless.

The next song on the CD was Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. I laughed out loud when he sang the words to me—because I could either laugh or swoon—and I was delighted from the tips of my ears to my toes, feeling dizzy with the force of exhilaration and happiness.

Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations, I Want You Back by the Jackson 5, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel rounded out the next three songs. I was out of breath, sweaty, and making no attempt to hide my euphoria when a slow song finally came on; again the Beach Boys, this time it was Don’t Worry Baby.

Duane grinned down at me and pulled me close, pressing my body against his, his bearded jaw at my temple, and moved us in a small, swaying circle. I closed my eyes, using the first full minute of the song to catch my breath. Then I used the next thirty seconds to force my heart to slow. But it wouldn’t.

First of all, I could smell him and he smelled good. So, so good. Plus his arms around me felt remarkable. And the way his body moved with mine, the feel of his chest and stomach and thighs… Oh sigh.