Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 530(@300wpm)
Inside, it’s dark, but the mix of moonlight and the lights spilling through the wide glass windows highlight where we’re going. Griff moves quickly to the right, opening the door leading to the garage bays.
The familiar, sharp scent of motor oil stings my nose as we enter the garage. Griff flicks on an overhead light that shines down on an old Ford pickup in the first bay.
“I like this. Are they keeping the mint-green paint?” I ask, running my fingers over the shiny chrome front fender.
“Yeah, I just replaced the clutch,” he says over his shoulder.
He keeps walking. My platform boots had been cute and comfy when I’d gotten dressed this morning but now my toes squish and rub with every step. I limp and struggle to keep up with Griff’s long strides.
Griff stops and turns. “Are you okay?”
“My feet are starting to hurt. I should’ve changed into my sneakers.”
“Come here.” In two steps, he’s in front of me and scooping me into his arms. His loving eyes roam over my face for a few heartbeats. “Birthday girls should be carried, anyway.”
I loop my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
The last bay holds a car-shaped lump under a big red blanket of some sort. It looks too new to be something Griff uses often. “Did the owner bring their car’s blankie from home or something?” I joke.
Griff chuckles and gently sets me down on the hood. “Hang on.”
I slide on the material. Afraid I’ll scratch whatever’s underneath, I jump off and stand in front of it. The lights flicker above. Definitely a car under there. Wide black tires peek out from under the edge of the red cloth. Griff walks up behind me and slides his hands over my eyes.
“What’re you doing?” I laugh.
“Keep your eyes closed for a second.”
“Okay.”
The warmth of his hands on my face disappears. His body brushes against mine, his footsteps a quick shuffling over the concrete.
There’s a ripple through the air. A rush against my cheek. A rumpling of fabric.
“Open,” Griff says.
My heart pounds. I peel my eyelids open and stare at the beat-up black-and-copper Chevy Malibu in front of me. My jaw drops and a squeak of surprise scratches out of my throat.
“Happy birthday.”
My scrambled brain can’t comprehend what’s happening. My gaze flits between the car and Griff’s questioning face.
“It’s yours.”
“What do you mean it’s mine?” I ask, my voice full of surprise and anticipation. He remembered that I said I wanted to restore a Malibu with him? Then went out and found one for us? Am I dreaming?
Griff flashes a crooked smile, and my heart skips. “Correction—when we’re finished with the restoration, it’ll be yours.”
“Really?” I squeal with delight and throw my arms around his neck. “You remembered that’s what I wanted?” I pepper his face with happy kisses.
“How could I forget?” He slides his arms around my waist, lifting me and catching my lips with his own. He sets me down and takes my hand. “Come on.”
As we walk around to the driver’s side, I realize the back panel’s actually a glossy blue and the trunk lid’s a dark matte red with a dent in the center.
“The frame’s straight,” Griff explains. “The damage is from them swapping panels with a different car.”
“I was wondering about the color scheme,” I tease. “Copper with black stripes up front and blue and red in the back.”
“That’s easy to fix. What’s important is the panels are in good condition.” He squats down and runs his fingers along the bottom. “Minimal rust. Floorboards and trunk bottom are solid. Glass in the doors and quarter panels are intact.”
“Important parts.” I nod as he stands and opens the driver’s side door.
“Now, the interior…” He pushes the door wider and leans inside to grab a black steering wheel off the front seat. He turns and holds it out to me. A silver ribbon’s twisted through the three spokes and tied into a bow. “Needs work.”
“Aww.” I grip the wheel with two hands. “Can I keep the bow?”
“Of course.”
I peer farther inside.
“The vinyl needs to be reupholstered.” Griff reaches in and flicks a piece of the black cracked front seat. The passenger side’s even worse. Discolored chunks of yellow foam spill out of several long, wide cracks. The headliner’s ripped and hanging from the ceiling in spiderweb-like tatters. “I can find replacement foam and covers or swap in new seats. Needs a new headliner and sail panels, too. We can order whatever you want. No radio but the A/C has been replaced,” Griff says in an almost apologetic tone.
“I can bring my Bluetooth speaker with me; I can’t lug around an air conditioner,” I say.
“It needs work—not gonna lie.” He slams the door shut.
We stand side by side next to the shell of the Malibu. The harsh overhead lights really do reveal how much work the car needs. Excitement bubbles up inside me. This is our project. That means spending lots of time working together. As he explains everything he thinks the car needs, my excitement grows.