Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“No,” I answer. “Jerry’s Garage does the maintenance for me.”
His eyes spark with interest. “Yeah? Are they local?”
“Yup. Actually.” I open my purse and pull out one of the cards with Griff’s name on it. “Jerry used to do all the work himself. He does all sorts of classics.” I circle around to meet him at the front of the car. “But Griff’s done the more recent work.”
The guy accepts the card, glances at it and nods. “Thanks. I’ll have to check them out. I just moved to the area. I have ‘67 Mustang Fastback I need someone to take a look at.”
“Oh, I love the design of those. Does it have the in-line six or a V8?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “V8.” His gaze shifts to something behind me. He taps the card in his hand. “I’ll definitely check this place out. What’s your name so I can tell them you sent me?”
“Margot.”
He flicks his gaze over my shoulder again, then sticks out his hand. “Noah.”
His hand’s warm, his grip firm. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Instead of walking past us, he turns around and strides away from us. Quickly.
I turn and collide with Jigsaw. “Have you been standing there the whole time?”
The harsh lines of his face soften, and he stops glaring twin holes into Noah’s back. “Yup.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“He kept things polite, so there was no reason to interrupt you.” He lifts one shoulder. “And I didn’t have anything to add to the conversation.”
What am I supposed to do with that? I probably should’ve made more effort to draw him into the conversation instead of being rude.
I nod to the Ford pickup truck he’d shown some interest in. “I’m ready to check this one out.”
“Me too.” He captures my hand.
We approach the truck slowly. Jigsaw stands back to admire the paint. “It’s very glittery.” He wiggles his fingers in the air over the hood.
“It’s a special paint with holographic glitter in it.”
He nods and slowly walks around the truck. The owner’s sitting in a chair near the tailgate, and he waves hello to me.
The look on Jigsaw’s face is almost wistful as he peers inside and checks out the blue-and-white leather seats. “Damn, it is immaculate.”
“The seats are all custom too.”
He takes a step back. “Is picture-taking allowed?”
“It’s encouraged.”
He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the truck from the front, then taps at the screen a few more times before tucking the phone away.
“My friend’s uncle had a truck like this when we were kids. Well, year and model. Nowhere near this condition.” He chuckles. “It was good ol’ seventies bronze and orange. I think Rooster’s aunt would’ve preferred glittery blue.”
“Did his uncle show it?”
“No, it was a grocery getter.” An almost affectionate smile brightens his expression then twists with sadness. “He used to joke that he wanted to be buried in that truck.”
By the change in tone, it sounds like his friend’s aunt and uncle are no longer with us. I’m not sure how to ask that, so I wait for him to continue.
He shakes his head like he’s tucking away a bittersweet memory for safekeeping. “Anyway, you don’t see a lot of them anymore. And definitely not in this condition. I sent the pic to Rooster.”
“That was sweet.”
He shrugs.
We walk all the way around the truck. The owner grins at me.
“How you doing, Margot?” He stands and nods at Jigsaw. “You going to introduce me to your fella?”
I let out an awkward chuckle. Should I correct him? No, he probably saw us kiss earlier, that’ll be weird if I say he’s just a friend.
While I’m debating it, Jigsaw introduces himself and compliments the truck.
Burt eyes Jigsaw up and down. “You’re a big fella, aren’t ya?”
Jigsaw’s eyes widen and he quickly stares down at his boots. “Damn, I guess so.”
Burt grins wide and laughs, then winks at me as if giving me his approval.
“I’ll keep an eye on your car, Margot,” Burt says to me. “You two go look around.”
“Thanks.”
Jigsaw takes my hand again and we move on to the next car—a purple Corvette. “I love these. If I ever decide to get another classic, it’ll be a Corvette.”
And then I can’t stop rambling about engines, bodywork, and restoration. Jigsaw’s quiet but keeps his head cocked my way the whole time. Almost like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
“Sorry,” I finally say. “I didn’t mean to keep talking.”
“I’m listening to everything you say.” He squeezes my hand. “How’d you get into classic cars?”
“The T-bird was my grandmother’s.”
He stops and stares at me. “Really? It’s been in your family that long?”
I nod quickly. “Yup. Dad was convinced he’d sell it after she passed.” A slight smile tugs at my lips as I recall the way his jaw dropped when we sat down at the lawyer’s office for the reading of her will. “But she left it to me.”