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Chapter 2
Roger
Rolling out from under my project car, I wipe my hands on my navy blue, work handkerchief. It’s been a long day, and I got some good work done. There’s something extremely satisfying about finding an old machine that someone gave up on and bringing it back to life one piece at a time.
I glance around the garage, making sure everything is in its place. The project car sits on one side of the garage, and the other spot just opened up. Tools and parts are organized on their shelves, ready for quick use. A special set of tools has a place of honor—my grandfather gave them to me when he retired.
“A good set of tools will last you a lifetime,” he always said.
When he visits, we still break them out to work together. Though these days, it’s more him telling me what to do while I apply the elbow grease.
Must be feeling a little nostalgic. It’s February after all—the month of love. My parents didn’t have a great marriage. Dad was gone most days for work, and Mom gave her best energy to my little sister. That’s why I’ve always looked to my grandparents—they have an amazing relationship, where they have loved and supported each other for over forty years. They still flirt and laugh every day. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m waiting for. Love with a woman that I know will last.
The garage door opens into the kitchen, and I take a moment to wash my hands and splash some water on my face. I unbutton my pale blue shirt and pull the ends out of my jeans, getting ready to put it and my white undershirt in the wash.
Knock knock.
Someone’s at the door. My brow furrows. I’m not expecting anyone. Habitually, I run my fingers through my hair trying to tame it before I open the door.
Whoa. I’m speechless when I see the gorgeous woman standing on my doorstep. I can’t stop myself from running my eyes over her luscious curves, showcased by her fitted pink sweater and tight, cherry-red skirt.
Gradually my gaze returns to her face. If the way her pillowy lips are parted is any indication, she’s just as shocked as I am. Big hazel eyes blink at me from behind the purple frames of her glasses.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Um, yes. I think so.” She pulls a small, red book from her purse and references the inside cover. “Do you know a Roger Murray?”
“Yes, I’m Roger Murray.”
“No, that can’t be right,” she mumbles to herself, lips pursed.
I need to look away from her lips—the longer I stare at them, the more I want to see them pursed around my dick. I force my gaze away, and notice she’s flipping through the book. She stops when she gets to a folded piece of paper.
“Look.” She opens the paper, turns it toward me, and points with a delicate finger. “I found this today. It’s a love letter written by Roger Murray. It’s clearly been here for years. Unless you wrote this?” she questions skeptically.
I lean closer to get a better look at the paper. “I think that’s my grandfather’s handwriting. I’m named after him.”
“That would explain why, when I searched his name, it gave me your address.” She nods to herself, then asks, “Is your grandfather still alive?”
“He is. In fact, why don’t we give him a call and get the scoop on this letter?” I step back and gesture for her to come inside. No way am I letting this woman leave right away. “Would you like to come in, Miss…?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Tootsie. I work at the library. That’s how I found the letter. It’s nice to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and I grasp it in a warm handshake. Her skin feels so soft, for a moment I’m tempted to hold her hand forever.
“Let’s sit at the kitchen table. Can I get you something to drink?” I try to discreetly move some dirty dishes from the top of the table into the sink, but I think she notices.
“No, thank you.” She glances around the kitchen. It’s basically neat, apart from an old pizza box on the counter and a few dishes scattered here and there. “So, you live here alone?”
“Yep. No wife or girlfriend. Just me.” I grab my phone out of my pocket and pull a chair up next to hers. “Can I see the letter again?”
“Oh, sure!” She lays the fragile paper on the table.
Now that I can see it more clearly, it’s undoubtedly my grandfather’s handwriting. “It’s definitely his. Let’s give him a call and see if he’ll tell us the story behind this letter.” I press his speed dial and put it on speakerphone.
“Hey, Roger boy! Are you calling about that Thunderbird listing I sent you?”
“Hey, Gramps. I saw it and was going to drive over to check it out later tonight. But right now, I have a different question. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
