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I do … and nothing happens, again.
I try a couple more times. Each time, no luck.
“Shit,” Tuck says, stepping out of his car at the same time I step out of mine. “It must be something worse than that.”
“Thanks for trying,” I say. “But you can go home now. I’ll just call a tow truck like I said.”
“Lemme check a couple things,” he says, ignoring my words.
He unzips his jacket and flings it onto the roof of his car. My breath catches when he pulls up the sleeves of his grey sweater, revealing those thick, dense forearms again. My eyes linger on the articulated veins and the downy brushing of his brown hair over the tops of them.
He leans over my hood and reaches his left hand deep into the maze of car parts. Suddenly, it feels like there’s something in my throat making it hard to swallow.
Maybe a bug flew in my mouth or something. Surely it’s not the sight of Tuck with his sleeves rolled up, reaching deep into the gears of a car with rugged masculine confidence that’s affecting my swallowing ability …
“Hm, that’s not it,” he grouses. “What about …” He pulls his left hand out then plunges his right deeper into another part of the engine. “Nope, not that, either.”
He takes a step back, scrunching up his mouth and regarding my car thoughtfully. He raises his right hand to scratch the top of his head, the action making his bicep pop noticeably even through the bunched-up sleeve of his sweater.
He lets out a heavy breath. “Lemme try one more thing.”
This time he reaches deeper into the car, bending over deep enough that his sweater rides up his back. I catch a sliver of his smooth, clear skin. A chill dances up my spine—thanks to a cold breeze that just rolled by, no doubt.
“Try starting it one more time,” Tuck says, straightening up.
I slide into my driver’s seat.
Again, nothing.
“Damn,” Tuck says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Yeah. Nothing to do but get it towed.”
“Thanks for trying,” I say. He did take a chunk of time out of his day, stood in the freezing cold, and got his forearms all greasy when we’re not even friends.
“Call the tow truck and tell them where your car is. Usually takes them a while to get around to making a tow. I’ll drive you back into town.”
I think about turning down his offer, but then I consider the alternatives, like walking the couple miles back home in this cold weather down a road that has zero space for pedestrians. So, I agree.
A couple minutes later, after calling a towing company, I find myself one place I never intended to be: in the passenger seat of Tuck McCoy’s Mercedes.
5
OLIVIA
The universe may have unfairly blessed Tuck McCoy in many, many ways, but there’s one talent it’s clearly declined to bestow on him: singing ability.
After enduring Tuck singing along to two Taylor Swift songs in a row—very loudly, might I add—I’m surprised my ears aren’t bleeding.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an awful singer?” I ask once The Other Side of the Door comes to an end.
Tuck turns to me and flashes a wide smile, his teeth a pristine, dazzling white. “Yes. Many times.”
“You’re doing this just to torture me, aren’t you?”
He balks. “You mean you’re not a Taylor Swift fan?”
“She’s fine, I like her, but …”
“Fine?” Tuck exclaims like he can’t believe his ears. “What do you mean fine? She’s a genius!”
