The Chance. Робин Карр
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ten days and five random meetings since he’d delivered her car. Then she ran into him again. She was going home from the diner, he was headed there. There was the usual small talk—weather, car, cooking—and she said, “This is getting really old, Eric. Why don’t you ask me out? Am I that unappealing?”
His eyes got round and his mouth fell open. “Huh?”
“Very eloquent, but for God’s sake, my car is running just fine, I don’t cook big meals every day but when it’s cloudy, dark and wet, I like soups, stews and casseroles, and I can tell you like me. I can’t tell how much you like me, but I’m sure I’ll get a fix on that in no time. So—we’re both new in town and we only have a few friends. You probably have more than I do, being in business and all, but since we get along, like each other, aren’t dating anyone else, why don’t we go out? We’ll just go eat something. Maybe we can talk about anything other than my car, like our hobbies or something.”
The look on his face was priceless. He was clearly stunned. “Sure,” he finally said.
“Friday night. And I’m not cooking for you. That hungry, desperate look you get in your eyes when you come face-to-face with my domesticity is alarming. I’m not looking for a man to take care of. Or one to take care of me, for that matter. But I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house for more than a run. And I haven’t been out on a date in so long... Well, you wouldn’t believe how long. I’ve been working. Then I’ve been... I’ll explain another time. So, Friday night?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Friday night.” Then he grinned hugely. “You asked me out on a date. You asked me.”
“I got very tired of waiting,” she said with a bit of superior impatience.
“I’ve never been asked out on a date before.”
She looked him up and down. Six-two, one-eighty and built, copper hair, the most enviable green eyes she’d ever seen, a little shadow of beard. Really gorgeous. Those eyes. God those eyes. “You big liar,” she said.
He shook his head and gave a shrug. “Not since the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”
“But people fixed you up all the time,” she reminded him.
“That’s when you go to the same birthday party or wedding reception. That’s not a date. And if I liked the woman, I asked.”
She frowned in doubt. “Are you wearing contacts?”
He shook his head again, but he was still grinning like a fool. “A gift from my mother. So, do you like seafood?”
“I’m from Boston,” she informed him.
“I’ll find something. I’ll pick you up at six. Is seven too late for dinner? Because I have to—”
“Shouldn’t I pick you up? Find the restaurant?” she asked.
“Nah, you did the hard part, the asking. I’ll do the rest. And by the way, I’m glad you asked. Thanks.”
“Were you ever going to?”
“I think so, yes. I was being cautious. Not for my sake. For yours.”
“Hmm. You’ll tell me more about that at dinner.”
“Fair enough. And you can tell me about the exciting world of research.”
She shook her head. “I really want you awake on this, our first date.”
* * *
Laine was very good at not overthinking things; she rarely found herself dwelling. On the Friday of her date, she dismissed it from her mind and focused on other things—a computer search for the right new rug for in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. She read a few chapters from a book she’d been into, put in a call to Pax and did a load of laundry. She was highly trained and knew how to place focus exactly where she wanted it. She had proven herself disciplined long ago—it was especially important in deep cover.
She could manage not to think about the fact that she hadn’t been on a date in a year and a half. How the devil had it been that long?
She also added a layer of blue polish to her toenails. It was funny the things one missed during a deep-cover assignment. The first two she’d been on had been relatively short—two weeks in a clinic that was suspected of drug trafficking and then four weeks working in a trucker’s dispatch office trying to ferret out the human trafficking connection. But it was over six months in The Fellowship and what she’d really come to grieve was toenail polish, perfume and bath gel. Not to mention hair products. Just because Laine was an FBI agent and an expert markswoman didn’t mean she was a thug or a tomboy. No, sir. She was actually a girlie girl. Yes, she could throw a big guy over the hood of a car and cuff him. And yes, she’d been in some fights—not by choice, but hell, sometimes duty called. She was strong, tough, fearless and feminine.
Finally it was nearly time and she showered, blew out her hair and donned a pair of nice wool slacks, boots, sweater, jacket and long silk scarf. The boots had thin, high heels—Eric was a solid six-two. She could use a little lift.
Her first surprise when she answered the door was how well he cleaned up. She nearly laughed at herself. Had she expected him to arrive in his mechanic’s uniform and sensible lace-up boots? He wore dark jeans, a nice sweater, suede jacket and black cowboy boots. And his name wasn’t sewn anywhere on his outfit.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she said, turning to lock the door and flinging her white fringed scarf over her shoulder. He stood aside to let her proceed and she suddenly stopped because there in the driveway was the shiniest, cranberry-red, restored car. “Wow.”
“I guess you can appreciate an old car.”
“Nineteen-seventy Chevy El Camino. Car or truck? That’s the question.”
“You know your cars,” he said, coming around her to open the passenger door. “You into cars?”
“Not in a big way, but this is beautiful.” But she did know her cars. She could identify just about any vehicle make and model on sight. That was part of police work. She could also remember license plates without the need to write down the numbers—not exactly a common thing among law enforcement officers, but she had a skilled memory. Beyond skilled, really.
A beautiful restored classic was all about aesthetics and Laine had a sudden and respectful appreciation for what Eric could do. When he joined her in the front seat she was caressing the dash. “Did you do this?”
“I did,” he said, turning the key and bringing the engine to life. “A friend saw her at a farm, a nonworking farm, along with four other old, wrecked cars. The property owner was ancient and didn’t give a hoot about those junkers, so I went there and made him a quick deal, handed him some cash and hauled them back to Oregon to work on. This one, I got attached to. I upgraded it, obviously—it’s not all original.”
“So you buy and restore old cars?”
“Sometimes. I have a steady clientele that comes to me for body work and I’m always on the lookout for deals, steals and old abandoned classics, not to mention original parts. Just body work...”
“This isn’t just body work,” she said, running a hand along the smooth dash. “This is art.”
That made him smile. “That’s my business.”
“I thought your business was mechanics, maintenance. And gas.”
“That’s part of it. We mean to take care of the town if we can. But body work and restoration is my first love. We’re finishing up a new paint bay in the shop. I left a lot of our specialty tools behind and this is a little like starting from scratch, but building a business makes sense. And it’s already working.”
“Wait a minute—left behind?”
“Oh,” he said with a laugh. “Okay, here’s how it went.