My sandals smack against the compacted dirt when I step out onto the otherwise empty lot. Before I can walk two feet, a massive beast trots over to me, stopping several feet away with eyes locked on my form. I freeze at the sight of this wolfish breed stalking near. Dogs have never frightened me, but I’m the intruder in this scenario. All bodily functioning goes into lockdown as this threatening creature eases closer. When the canine’s cool snout brushes my hand, I hold back a whimper. If only I could recall how to handle this abrupt introduction without losing my marbles.
It’s all I can do to remain still. I swear Crawford sucks in a harsh breath as his dog gives me another sniff. A plea to call off the pooch patrol is ripping up my throat. The beginning notes are ready to tremble out of me when the unmistakable warmth of a sloppy lick traces across my arm. A furry muzzle bumps into my spread palm. That’s a good sign, right?
I allow my eyes to lift, waiting for further instruction from Crawford. His eyes bounce from me to his loyal companion, a thunderous scowl tightening his features. I’m not being torn to shreds, so why does he look disappointed? His lips twitch with mutterings I can’t hear, but Millie does.
“The female race is conspiring against you?” A familiar dent knits her brow. “What did Patch do wrong?” The dog in question whines, and I give her a cautious pat. After a few strokes through her thick fur, she retreats back to the garage and flops on a large cushion.
Crawford frowns at Millie. “You weren’t supposed to be listening.”
“But you told me to pay very close attention to everything you said.”
“That was while we were fixing the bike.”
“You’re confusing,” she mumbles.
Crawford’s shoulders bounce with a booming chuckle. “And you catch on quick.”
Even with the generous distance separating us, his appeal reaches me. Unfortunately, or maybe not, the weeks since I last saw him haven’t dulled my instant attraction. I’d been able to blame those feelings on a long-neglected biological need—the cobwebs, if you will. It had been easy enough to explain those feelings away. But standing in front of him again has me questioning logic. Damn, maybe I should let Josey take me dancing. Scratch this seemingly insatiable itch, as of late. She’ll be so pleased to hear my change of heart is due to a man.
I inch further into the garage without a word, giving my daughter a chance to wrap up whatever it is she’s doing. They continue to ignore my presence while I keep pretending their indifference doesn’t sting. I’m happy Millie is enjoying herself, but this is a tad extreme. The last thing she needs is some misguided hero worship, even if Crawford is responsible for saving the day again.
With that in mind, I hustle to erase the gap between us. I wait a few beats for either one of them to acknowledge me. When that doesn’t happen, I clear the remaining pressure from my throat.
“Hey, you two. What’s hogging all of your concentration?”
Millie looks at me over her shoulder. “Hi, Mama. I need to remain focused. Ford is teaching me how to replace a spark plug.”
“Uh, okay. That’s interesting. Thanks for entertaining her. Sorry it took so long for me to get here.” What should’ve been fifteen minutes dragged out to twenty. They don’t seem to be bothered by my delay.
Crawford barely spares me a glance, immediately resuming his work on the machine. “No problem.”
The vibe he’s exuding is cold enough to make my teeth chatter. He’d been relatively pleasant over the phone, but maybe the panic is fogging my memory. Crawford doesn’t appear to be interested in exchanging pleasantries, much like our first stilted conversation. Not that I blame his aloof behavior—I’m some random woman whose child went missing, and I didn’t even know.
Shaking the jitters from my hands, I try again. “Can I talk to you for a moment, Ford?”
Millie is the one who pipes up. “But Mama, he’s busy teaching me. And I’m not ready to leave yet. We’re almost done, okay?”
Damn, she’s sassy. I had no idea that my shy daughter is capable of wheeling and dealing. I’d protest harder if this sort of dismissal for my rules was typical. But still. “Sweetie, I doubt Ford—”
“She’s doing just fine here,” he interrupts. Crawford’s posture can only be described as rigid. He doesn’t move for several moments, remaining stiff and detached. When the tension finally eases from his frame, he begins cranking at the bike as if I hadn’t addressed him.
Cold. Detached. Indifferent.
Asshole.
During our initial interaction, Crawford was callous and blunt. He kept his expression flat, devoid of any clear reactions. That didn’t stop him from changing my flat tire. This guy? I don’t even know where to begin when he won’t acknowledge me.
“Great. Okay,” I force out. Crawford grunts at my pitchy tone. Millie gifts me with an adorable giggle. I could never refuse her, especially when she’s voluntarily interacting with someone who’s not already integrated into our miniscule squad. Not wanting to intrude further, I turn my sights elsewhere.
The garage is a standard setup, at least from a surface glance. Rows of tools are arranged in neat clusters along the wall. Tubes and hoses and tires and other rubber objects are piled in the far corner. Gasoline and hard labor permeate the air. Faded stains color the floor, badges of honor from jobs long gone. There are a few fresh splotches, too. Crawford remains busy, and his place of business is showing off.
The abrasive scrape of metal drags my gaze to the conspiring duo. Millie fiddles with a screwdriver,
