Chapter 2

With a few hours left until Dylan’s race after I’ve showered and dressed, I figure I can kill some time, trying out the new strawberry tart recipe I found online yesterday. My parents will be home late and probably hungry.

“Dude,” I hear as I open the door. “Have you started reading this?”

I pop my head up to see Dylan lying on my bed with the hardcover I got in the mail today.

I laugh to myself. “No. Romance isn’t my thing.”

“Not your thing? Who doesn’t like love stories?”

I toss my towel down and gaze over at her. She’s so different than me. Snarky, fun-loving, up for anything . . .

“If you want to read it, go ahead.”

There’s silence as I stand at my dresser and dig in my makeup bag, starting to pick out what I need.

“Happiness is a direction, not a place.”

What?

I spin around. “What did you say?”

She raises her eyes. “You told me I could read it.”

Yeah, not out loud. But that line . . . I know that line.

“That’s a sentence in the book?” I go over to her to take a look.

Sure enough, it’s the first sentence. Weird. That same quote is inscribed on a gold compass my mom gave me when I was twelve.

A compass I gave Lucas the last time I saw him, in exchange for his hat. I thought it would ensure he’d come back to return it. It hasn’t.

And I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that a mysterious book from a mysterious sender containing a quote I’m familiar with has found me.

“Do you want me to read more?” Dylan asks.

No, not really. But I can’t help but feel a little curious now.

I shrug and walk to my dresser again. “Just a little more, sure.”

•   •   •

Jase . . .

Happiness is a direction, not a place. Or so they said.

I fucking hated that saying. Like I wouldn’t be happier anywhere else but here right now.

I ran my fingers through my short blond hair, smoothing away the mess the wind had made, and skirted around a couple at a high round table as I made my way to my father’s nook in the back. It was dark, secluded, and quiet, but it allowed him an excellent view of the action. And my father liked to see everything.

“The one thing I can count on about you”—he smiled like he’d swallowed something bad—“is that you can’t be counted on.”

“Where you’re concerned?” I replied lazily as I unbuttoned my jacket and slid into the semicircle booth without looking at him. “Of course not.”

I dumped my keys on the table and gestured to the waitress who made eye contact. She knew what I drank. I was here every Friday night at six o’clock sharp for the weekly rundown with my father.

“You’re right, Jase,” he agreed. “I expect too much from you apparently.”

His dry tone reeked of disappointment, but I didn’t give a shit. At twenty-six I was already disillusioned enough to feel sorry for my own infant kid. What kind of family did I bring him into?

“I was in court in Chicago,” I explained. “What would you have me tell them? That you want weekly reports on my sperm count, so you can have a busload of grandsons in hopes that one of them will make it to the White House someday?”

Sarcasm was something I hadn’t grown out of.

“Stop whining.” My father swirled his Jameson in his rocks glass. “Tell them that you have an important meeting.”

“I hate lying. You know that.”

I dug into my breast pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case, taking one out and lighting it. Tossing my lighter down on the table, I focused straight ahead of me, knowing my father was watching me through the swirls of smoke.

He was weighing his words, deciding if it would be worth his energy to chide me.

I blew out the smoke, biting back the smile tugging at my mouth. The day I graduated from law school last spring was the day I stopped letting him push me around. I had my degree, and I had the upper hand. He needed me more than I needed him, so once I’d secured my future, I put my foot down.

He’d bullied me into taking up the law, which even though I found little enjoyment in it, I was actually adept in it, and my forced marriage to Maddie was already hanging on by a thread. She was as unhappy as I was, and our son was the glue.

As much as I loved her, it was only a matter of time.

The waitress set down my drink—GlenDronach, neat—and disappeared.

“How’s the kid?” my father asked.

I smiled, my son’s sweet face flashing in my head. “Perfect,” I replied. “He came out of the womb with a smile, and I don’t think he’s stopped since.”

“He’s strong.” My father nodded, eyeing me. “He needs brothers.”

“He needs a father,” I shot back, blowing out smoke and hating the dirt taste in my mouth.

“You know I hate smoking.”

“I know,” I replied. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me tonight? Other than about my child?”

He sighed, probably annoyed that I wasn’t playing along. “And Madeline?” He leaned forward, his midnight blue suit a sharp contrast to the red booth. “How is she?”

“Fine.” I nodded, tapping off some ashes in the ashtray. “Probably busy redecorating. She already has the kid in mommy and me swimming and Gymboree.”

“She’s a good woman.” He leaned back, looking at me pointedly.

I fisted my fingers, accidentally snapping the cigarette in half. “You don’t have to tell me that. I know my wife better than you.”

Maddie was my best friend.

Or rather she used to be.

We grew up in the same circles, were thrown together at social functions growing up, and were even “encouraged” to attend the same university. Lucky for our parents we hit it off and always kept in touch when we were separated. She attended boarding school down south, while I attended military school, but we wrote and talked on the phone. She knew me, and I cared about her.

Unlucky for us was the knowledge that our parents had a plan. Arranged marriages are supposed to be a thing of the past, but they’re still very much alive and well, and it’s ruined the close relationship Maddie and I once shared.

The stress of forcing myself to make love to someone I didn’t think about like that was killing me. She was still trying, but I’d shut down.

And it killed me to hurt her.

I could feel my father’s judgmental eyes on me, and I hurriedly tucked my cigarettes and lighter back in my jacket, getting ready to leave. I couldn’t do this tonight.

“Son,” he started, “I love you—”

I let out a bitter laugh, cutting him off. “Don’t even try. Unlike me, you’re terrible at lying.”

“And I do want you to be happy,” he continued, ignoring my insult. “I know you and Maddie are having problems.” He lowered his voice. “You’re practically separated, sleeping on your office couch half the week or in spare bedrooms in your house.”

How did he know that? Damn it.

“There are ways for a married man to find satisfaction outside of his home.”

I shook my head before throwing back the rest of my drink. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

To my father, happiness was power. And taking anything you wanted was powerful. He had no boundaries, and no sense of right or wrong.

But I did.

I may not have been in love with my wife, but I did love her. I may not want to yank up her skirt and fuck like her like I couldn’t live without her, but I did care about her. We hadn’t had sex in months, and even though I knew things were ending between us, I wanted to protect her and respect her.

I let out a breath and slid out of the booth, standing up and grabbing my phone and keys.

“This marriage cannot fail.” My father leaned forward, issuing his order. “You’re getting more and more distant by the day, and you need to keep it together. You’d be surprised how easily another woman can—”

“Another woman,” I growled, cutting him off, “isn’t going to fix what’s missing.”

“I know what’s missing,” he retorted, looking me up and down. “You have no lust for anything. Every day is the same. You already feel like you’re sixty years old, right?”

I froze, staring at him.

“Life is so dull”—he spoke slowly as if knowing every thought in my head—“even food seems boring, doesn’t it?”

My knuckles cracked, and the room felt like it was getting smaller.

He leaned back, eyeing me with his self-satisfied fucking face. “We keep a suite at the Waldorf, Jase. You’re not getting a divorce, so I suggest you use the room whenever and however often you need it.”

I shook my head and spun around, bolting out of the bar without even stopping to get my coat.

Jesus Christ. What a fucking prick.

The frigid March evening cut into me, but it was a welcome relief from my burning temper.

I powered down the sidewalk, my gaze driving over the concrete, and I couldn’t seem to get a handle on myself. I couldn’t make myself happy and keep my family intact. Why couldn’t I find a balance? Maddie wasn’t the problem. I was. Why didn’t I want her?

She knew I didn’t love her like that when we married, and it was the same for her, but we thought it would grow into something bigger.

I’d see her standing at the refrigerator in the mornings dressed in my white T-shirts, her long, beautiful legs and angelic face equal in their perfection. Any man would desire her. So why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I slip my hands inside of her clothes and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was? Or how much I needed to be inside of her right then? Why couldn’t I give her the husband she deserved?

I rounded the corner, heading into the rear parking lot, lost in my thoughts, when I heard hushed chatter. I looked up and immediately halted.

My eyes narrowed at the sight of two kids hovering around my car, fiddling with the handle of my BMW.

What the . . . ?

“Hey!” I burst out, charging forward as both of their heads shot up. “Get away from my car!”

“Run!” one of the guys shouted, darting around the car and breaking into a run. “Come on, Kat!”

I raced over, seeing one of the kids shooting down to grab tools off the ground.

“Thomas!” he shouted after the other kid had already run off like a coward and saved himself.

But it was too late for this one.

These fucking kids were out of control, and I hoped like hell he was old enough to taste a night in jail.

“Come here, you little shit.” I swooped down and grabbed the kid by his black sweatshirt and yanked him up.

But my face immediately fell.

It wasn’t a boy.

Not a boy at all.

It was a young woman.

She breathed hard, both fear and fight blazing in her chocolate eyes as I held her by the collar. I stared into the warmest brown hue I’d ever seen, and a glow of light sweat covered her flushed cheeks.

My mouth went dry.

Her long brown hair was tucked into the collar of her hoodie, but strands blew across her face with the light wind, and I squeezed her sweatshirt tighter.

“Let go of me, asshole!” she shouted, struggling and squirming to get away. I narrowed my eyes, amusement fluttering through my chest.

She twisted, throwing out her pathetic little fists, and I almost laughed.

I jerked her up. “How old are you? Didn’t your parents teach you to keep your hands off other people’s things?”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” she yelled, tears filling her eyes despite her tough act. “I promise we won’t do it again. We just needed the money.”

“Tell it to the cops,” I snapped, even though I had no intention of calling the police.

Her worried eyes darted around her, and I could tell she was struggling not to cry.

“How old are you?” I demanded again. Did she have parents responsible for her?

She shot angry eyes at me but clamped her mouth shut.

I got in her face. “How old?” I yelled.

But the next thing I knew, she’d swung her fist, bringing it down across the side of my face, and I reared back, loosening my grip on her.

Shit!

I grabbed my face, trying to force my stinging eye back open, but all I could make out were legs and ass as she darted away, into the night.

I squinted, rubbing the ache in my cheek, and I swallowed blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth when she’d hit me.

I composed myself and moved toward my car. But then I zeroed in on something on the ground, and I reached down to pick it up.

A wallet.

It had to be hers. Fake red leather with a coin compartment. Opening it up, I immediately went for her license and picked it out.

“Kat,” I said slowly, eyeing her bright smile and dark eyes.

And then I looked at her birthdate, since she’d refused to tell me.

Nineteen.

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “Old enough to know better,” I said to myself.

The address read “14 Truman Street,” and I turned the card around in my fingers, thinking about what to do.

I could have them arrested. Or I could save myself some aggravation, because they were only common street punks, and toss the license into the Dumpster. I had better things to do. Who really cared, anyway?

But then her eyes flashed in my head, and I suddenly knew what I wanted to do. My interest was piqued. The fear and the way her breathing shook. The vulnerable tremble to her bottom lip. The anger and the way she slapped me as she found the courage to fight.

What was her story?

Slipping the card into my pocket, I climbed into my car and sped out of the parking lot. Truman Street was on the other side of town, and I had no clue if she and her little pal even had transportation or they were just counting on taking mine, but I suspected I wouldn’t even find her home. If that was her real home, that is.

I sped down the street and took a left on Main, cutting through the downtown and driving until the businesses and pedestrians were behind me. I couldn’t see everything as clearly at night, but I could tell that the manicured lawns of emerald green had now turned brown and patchy, and the houses became smaller and older as the neighborhoods changed. The once-white siding of a trailer was tinged yellow under the porch light, and I couldn’t help but feel disgust at the garbage lying on some of the lawns.

After a few minutes, I finally pulled up on Truman Street and slowed my car, seeing number fourteen across the street. The house was dark with no lights illuminating the outside.

I gazed around the neighborhood, picturing my son inside one of these trailers or dilapidated houses. There was no way in hell.

“We could’ve been arrested!” I heard a woman shout.

I followed the voice and saw a girl across from number fourteen, leaving a trailer and carrying a small child. She chased after a man walking away from her.

It was them.

She adjusted the child on her hip, holding the poor kid close, since he didn’t have a jacket. It looked as if they were picking him up at someone else’s house.

“What would’ve happened to our kid?” she shouted after the guy, the father, I presumed.

He crossed the street, heading to number fourteen, and she trailed behind, carrying the child. He opened the door and disappeared inside, leaving her out there alone.

What a fucking prick. She was just a kid.

And the kid had a kid. I couldn’t have her arrested.

Taking out my cell phone, I dialed a number and held the phone to my ear, waiting for him to answer like he always did.

“Hi. It’s Jase,” I informed him when he picked up. “I need all the information you can find on the residents of Fourteen Truman Street.”

“Okay,” Brown answered, and I knew he was probably writing the address down. He was on the company payroll, and an investigator my father’s firm used often. “I’ll get back to you within forty-eight hours.”

“Twelve.” And I hung up.

•   •   •

Dylan stops reading there, but I can see her eyes move across the page as she silently reads.

“Hey,” I complain. I was listening to that.

I walk over and throw myself onto the bed, landing on my stomach next to her. Dylan turns to me, cocking an eyebrow.

“She tried to steal his car,” I explain, “and now he knows exactly where she lives. You can’t just stop there.”

We hover close, both of us reading to ourselves.

***

Jase . . .

A week later, I walked into Denton Auto Repair, a piece-of-shit shack probably built in the thirties with chipped white paint and a dank cement floor in the “lobby.” The walls were stained yellow, probably from old cigarette smoke, the blue counter was cracked, and the two vinyl couches were ripped. I held back my sneer, trusting in the fact that the place had been in business a long time. It probably had a good reputation.

But under normal circumstances I would never step foot in such a grimy shithole whose mechanics would probably take my car out for a joyride after they talked me into leaving it overnight. I had other business here, though.

I closed the door behind me, the sun setting outside and evening approaching, and pulled out my handkerchief, absently wiping off my hand before stuffing it back into my pocket.

Two men loitered around the lobby, and when I looked to the front counter, I found it empty. This was where she was supposed to work. I’m not sure what she did, though. Clean, maybe?

“Mr. Hutcherson,” a female voice called, and I jerked my head to the left.

A young woman strolled behind the counter, coming in through the door leading in from the garage area, and heat immediately warmed my chest. I watched as she stapled paperwork and offered the man who’d stepped up to her counter a smile.

Jesus.

Her dark brown hair shone, tied up in a messy ponytail, and I caught hints of red in the strands around her oval-shaped face that I hadn’t noticed last week. Her chocolate eyes were deep and warm, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at her full bottom lip.

I clenched my fists at my sides, and tried to breathe normally, like I didn’t want to walk right over there and . . .

She wore jean shorts that weren’t too tight but just short enough to see a good amount of thigh, with a white V-neck T-shirt tucked into them that kind of drowned her. Did it belong to her boyfriend?

I walked slowly forward, as if on autopilot, and stepped into line behind the other man, Hutcherson, I would assume, to await my turn. She smiled at him and handed him his keys as he paid the bill. I noticed she had a grease stain on her neck as well as a few black smudges on her shirt and several on her hands. She must’ve worked on cars, too.

It was dark that night, and I didn’t get a good look at her then, but seeing her again, I knew . . . it wasn’t the adrenaline that night or the cold weather or the frustrated state I’d been in after fighting with my father.

I didn’t want to punish her. Or help her. I’d wanted to see her again, yet I shouldn’t have come. But my family was out of town, and I’d told myself it was just curiosity. That’s all it was.

You’d be surprised how another woman can . . . Can what, Dad? Can tempt me like this? Can distract me from everything I hate in my life and make me feel alive again? For just a few minutes?

It was a bitter fucking pill to swallow that he might’ve been right. Everything had become paint-by-numbers in my life, and for the first time in a long time, the lines were blurred. I felt like I could stretch out my arms and not run into a boundary.

And for the first time ever, I felt dangerous to someone. I liked it.

“Can I help you, sir?”

A male voice to my left spoke up, and I turned my head. It was a young guy with red hair and a dark blue mechanic’s shirt. His name patch read “Josh.”

“Yes. I’d like you to pull my car into the garage.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys, handing them over. “I’ve only been waiting forever.”

My tone was curt, but only because I knew it would fluster him and send him on his way. I was dealing with the girl, not him.

“Uh . . . ,” he stammered, wide eyed, but I wasn’t interested in conversation. I looked away, telling him we were done.

“Sure, absolutely,” he finally responded.

He took the keys from me and darted outside, probably knowing he wouldn’t have a hard time determining which car belonged to me. Not every person who drove a German car was a dickhead, but every dickhead drove a German car.

Hutcherson moved on, and I stepped up to the counter, staring at the girl as she stapled more papers and tucked them into a plastic sleeve with a set of keys.

“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm even though my heart was jackhammering in my chest.

“Hey,” she replied, not looking at me. “Just a minute, please.” And then she spun around, pushing a button and speaking into an intercom. “Can someone pull that Honda out? Pickup’s here.”

And then she slid the plastic sleeve onto a hook on the wall and twisted back around, finally looking up at me.

“Hey, I’m sor—” She froze. Her eyes widened, and I held back my grin, feeling the pulse in my neck throb as I waited for what she’d do now. She recognized me. The thin fabric of her T-shirt moved up and down as her chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, and I simply watched her beautiful skin turn a delightful shade of pink.

She finally blinked, finding her voice. “Hi,” she said breathlessly, looking down and fidgeting with something on the counter. “Um, we’re actually about to close, sir. I’m sorry. One of the guy’s daughters has a birthday party tonight, and the other mechanics are leaving with him. We can schedule you for tomorrow if you like.”

I studied her, wondering how she thought she was going to just play this off. We both knew why I was here.

I knew I should take the out she was offering. I should leave and go home to wait for my wife and son.

But that wasn’t what I found myself doing.

“What about you?” I tipped my chin at her. “Are you a mechanic?”

But she just shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

I gave her a knowing smile and looked down at her hands, dark grease caked around her nails.

She followed my gaze and fisted her fingers, hiding them. “Maybe on a Buick or a Toyota,” she replied, “but you don’t want me messing with your fifty-thousand-dollar engine. Trust me.”

I smiled to myself, because she didn’t realize that she’d just given herself away. How did she know which car was mine? Had she seen me drive up?

Or rather, did she remember that she’d tried to steal it the other night?

“I just need an oil change.”

“Well, like I said . . . we’re closing early.”

“I’ll pay,” I insisted. “Double your rate?”

“She’ll do it.” Someone spoke up behind her, and I looked to see a middle-aged man rolling a tire past her.

“What?” she burst out, spinning her head around to glare at the man. “I have to get home.”

“Do it,” he ordered, continuing out to the garage, away from any further protest.

Must be her boss.

She turned back to me, a scowl marring her once-sweet face. And I finally saw the same temper I saw the other night when she hit me. I pulled out my wallet from the inside of my suit jacket and doled out three one-hundred-dollar bills onto the counter, not taking my eyes off her.

“Is that enough?”

She stared at the money—the money I knew she needed—as she no doubt weighed the risk of what was happening here. She didn’t know what I wanted—neither did I—but she knew I hadn’t called the cops yet, so there was a chance to get out of this. She also knew that if she sent me away, she lost control of the situation. Or whatever control she now had.

Her eyes finally rose to meet mine, and I saw a hint of mischief cross her pretty, young face.

She leaned forward, nearly whispering. “How bad do you want it?”

My fingers tightened around the wallet, and my stomach dropped a little, catching the taunting edge to her words.

Was she playing with me?

And I watched in awe as she reached over, smoothly swiped the three hundreds off the counter, and then plucked another hundred out of my hand, making it four. Stuffing them in her back pocket, she left me there and headed into the garage.

I didn’t even try to hide my smile. She had my complete attention.

Just for a while. Just for tonight.

•   •   •

I stood outside the garage, half-in and half-out, smoking a cigarette as the darkness shrouded the road and the surrounding woods, and watching her out of the corner of my eye. She raised my BMW up on the hydraulics and tucked a couple of tools into her back pocket as she walked underneath the car and bent her head back, loosening the plug to the oil above her.

A tune played on the radio, and it was hard to keep my eyes off her. Especially when she kept swaying ever so slightly to the music, probably without realizing it.

I was impressed, though. I half expected her to call for help. She and I were alone here now, after all. Maybe that loser guy she was with would bring some friends over to send me on my way with a few threats? But no . . . as far as I could see, she hadn’t called anyone. She just got to work on my car.

Smart kid.

I nodded to the bulletin board, which had a five-by-seven portrait of a brown-eyed boy—about six months old—pinned to it. “Is that your son?”

She jerked her head back down at me, as if just noticing I was there. Her expression turned guarded, but she glanced at the picture before quickly turning back to her job under the car. “That obvious?”

I watched her, thinking about how hard it must be to raise a child at her age. I couldn’t imagine whoever the father was being much help. Especially if it was that piece of shit from the other night.

“He has your eyes,” I said.

“And my ex’s temper,” she stated in a clipped tone. “I can tell already.”

Ex. “You’re too young to have exes.” I blew out a stream of smoke and dropped the butt, grinding it out with my shoe.

But she just ignored me.

I stepped into the garage, my suit coat open, and my hands in my pockets. “Do you go to college?”

She glared at me. “Customers aren’t supposed to be in the garage.”

But I ignored her and keep pressing. “You don’t want to work here for the rest of your life, do you?”

“I have to work, College Boy,” she bit out. “With a kid to support, I don’t have time for school.”

I wanted to laugh at her spunk, but I held it back.

She came out from under the car, tossed down some tools, and pressed the hydraulics button, lowering the car again and looking impatient.

“My son is about the same age,” I told her.

“At home with the wife?”

And I held her gaze, all humor gone from my mood. She was smart, I’d give her that. Strolling slowly over to her, I pulled my hand out of my pocket, taking her license with it, and tossed it on top of the toolbox in front of her.

“Talking to a woman who isn’t my wife isn’t a crime,” I said, stating it like a threat. “Trying to steal my property is.”

She stood there, staring at the license with her name and address on it, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Now you’re scared, aren’t you?

“What do you want?” she asked.

“What do you think I want?”

Her breath shook for a moment, but then she turned her face to me, clenching her teeth so hard, I could see her jaw flex.

“An apology, of course,” I said as if what else could I possibly want from her.

“I want you to leave.”

“Then you need to finish my car,” I shot back, my eyes falling to that little black smudge on her slender neck.

Her eyes turned angry, and she hesitated. But she popped the hood and got back to work. I turned and headed for the other side of the car, leaning against the toolboxes and crossing my arms over my chest.

I knew I should just leave. She was scared, and she already had it rough enough.

Just get in your car, go home, and leave the kid alone.

“What are you going to do?” She leaned over the car, upending an oil container into the engine and letting it empty. “Why are you here?”

“How long have you been married?” I asked, ignoring her question.

I saw her swallow and then answer quietly. “A little over a year. But I’d barely call it a marriage anymore. I’m trying to get a divorce.”

“Trying?”

“It’s none of your business.”

No, it wasn’t. But I was making her my business.

“And you thought what you were doing was healthy?” I charged. “Letting him get you caught up in criminal activity, so he can get money to get high?”

She shot me a scowl while leaning over the car and pouring in another bottle. “And you’re any better?” she replied, her tone getting harder. “Don’t think I don’t know what you want. You would’ve called the police already if justice was what you were after.” She stood up, grabbing a cloth to wipe off her hands. “No, you think I’m vulnerable and you can take advantage.”

No. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t trying to prey on her.

So why the hell was I here then?

“Isn’t that it?” she taunted, walking slowly toward me with a look in her eyes. “Does it turn you on—the dirty trailer park girl? You think I’ll be wild, don’t you?” She stepped up to me, her breasts brushing against my crossed arms. Leaning in, she dropped her voice low and sexy, and I could feel the heat of her body. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it? At church on Sunday, giving your clean wife a clean kiss on the check”—she offered a small smile—“you were thinking about my ass and how dirty and good and naughty I’m gonna feel . . .”

My breathing sped up, and I stared at her full bottom lip, feeling like I’d suddenly gotten myself into trouble.

Licking her lips, she leaned in further, whispering, “Pathetic fucking college boy. You wouldn’t know what to do with this ass.”

And then she rolled her hips, barely brushing mine in a little tease, and I groaned, my breath shaking. The contact sent my body reeling, and I was fully hard and hot with need.

She pulled away slowly, a smirk on her face, because she knew what she was doing to me. She might be a tough little scrapper most of the time, but the girl could be sexy as fuck.

And she’d just issued a challenge.

I watched as she took the oil can out, replaced the dipstick, and closed the hood of the car.

“Keys are in it.” She turned to me, the gloating look in her eyes still there.

Keeping my gaze on her, I reached into my jacket and pulled out my billfold again, taking out a business card. Not breaking eye contact, I placed it on the toolbox.

“Whenever you’re ready to give me that apology,” I told her.

Please don’t lose it.

And please don’t use it.