Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“I believe so, or at least I’ve started to understand the value of that over the last year,” she says. “Will you tell me what’s on your list?”
I stand and step between her knees, absorbing her scent and her heat, losing myself for a few seconds in the dark infinity of her eyes.
“I’ll do even better.” I take her hand and pull her to her feet. “I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SOLEDAD
Never has a man so affected me by simply holding my hand, but every time Judah takes my fingers in his, it’s like the sun trapped between our palms. And that point of contact is both searing and a comfort. He leads me out back, behind the house to a small shed.
“If you tell me you have a she shed too,” I tease, “I’m getting a restraining order.”
“Somehow,” he says, catching my eyes with his over the muscled contour of his shoulder, “I don’t think you will.”
I release his hand and playfully slap his arm. “Cocky?”
“Hopeful,” he corrects, opening the door to the shed and pressing a hand to the small of my back to guide me inside. “Watch your step. I left in a hurry last night and may not have put everything away.”
He flicks the wall light on, and I’m completely unprepared for what’s in his shed.
“A truck?” I gasp. “You’re fixing a truck?”
It’s an older model, but that’s as far as my limited knowledge extends. It appears that either there wasn’t much to repair or he’s advanced in the process. The wheels are on. The parts seem shiny and relatively new.
“Not just any truck,” he says. “A classic, a 1964 Chevy C10.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“My dad and I used to restore classic cars and motorcycles, so yeah.” He walks around to the front, lightly tapping the hood. “He’s got a 1981 Honda CM400 waiting for me in his garage right now that we plan to work on over Christmas.”
“I don’t know much about motorcycles, but that sounds really cool.”
“It is, and you probably know this bike. It’s the one Prince rode in Purple Rain.”
“Shut up! How’d you get that? It’s not part of his estate?”
“Not the bike, Sol.” His shoulders shake with a deep laugh. “Sorry. I should have been clearer. A 1981 Honda CM400. Not the one, and it’s not purple. I don’t think I could pull that off.”
“Well now I feel silly.” I cross my eyes, drawing a low chuckle from him, which makes looking a little silly worthwhile. “My sisters and I watched that movie a hundred times. Shame yours isn’t purple. That’s my favorite color, you know.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he laughs.
“Whatever. Tell me about this truck.”
“Ramjet 350 engine,” he says.
“And, of course, I know exactly what that means. Go on.”
He grins, pounding the roof lightly with his fist. “Custom interior, automatic transmission with overdrive, Positraction rear end with 3.73 gears, coil-over front suspension with rack-and-pinion steering. And for your ultimate posterior comfort, Tahoe leather bucket seats.”
“You know all of that sounds like gibberish to me, right?”
“But are you impressed?”
“Oh, very.” I widen my eyes. “Tell me more.”
“If you mean that literally, and I can’t imagine that you don’t,” he says, smoothing a palm over the hood, “anodized aluminum grille. I already repainted it. It was this gross green color, but I blocked and sanded it and painted it black.”
“Looks like you’re almost done.” I walk slowly around the truck, pausing at the back and peering into the truck bed. There’s a blanket and two pillows laid out.
“Is this a setup, Mr. Cross?” I ask with mock sternness. “Thought you might get some action?”
“No, I swear it’s not. Aaron and Adam come out here sometimes and hang out in the truck bed while I work on something under the hood.”
He grabs me by the waist and lifts me to sit on the lowered lip of the truck bed, making me laugh and squeal.
“But you can sit here for a minute and trust that I won’t take advantage of you.”
I smile up at him and pat the space beside me. “And I promise not to take advantage of you.”
“Oh, please do.” He chuckles and hops up beside me. “I’d like that a lot, actually.”
“I just bet you would.” I pull my knees under me and lean back on my palms, trying to regulate suddenly shallow breathing. He’s big and handsome and warm, and his clean, masculine scent encircles me. His stare stalks me, and every cell of my body is screaming, Catch meeeeeee.
I clear my throat and ask, “So restoring this truck is on your Me List?”
“Yeah. I haven’t done this since summer of sophomore year when I was home from college.” He shrugs. “I forgot how much it calms my mind. Sometimes I spend all day trying to figure something out at the office. An hour out here after dinner and the solution just clicks into place. There’s a correlation for me between working with my hands and with my mind. Sitting at a desk all the time, that’s easy to forget.”