The reservation at Madrid is for eight. I’ve wanted to try that restaurant for a long time, and Caleb had said he’d treat me for my birthday. So I’d booked a table two months ahead and had been counting down the days. The fact that Caleb, Mr. Penny Pincher (despite having a fat trust fund), is willing to shell out for an expensive meal has had me wondering if he’s finally going to ask me to move in with him. It feels like the right time since we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year and we’ll both be graduating soon. Plus, it’ll save me from having to move home for the summer or find another place since my roommate’s sister is going to be staying with her over the break.
If nothing else, Caleb is imminently practical, so moving in makes sense. But now I have no idea where he is, and even if he does get here soon, the plans are probably off anyway because I can’t walk into a fancy restaurant smelling like roadkill and auto repair shop—which is turning out to be some weird combination of stale coffee, those scented pine trees that hang from rearview mirrors, and motor oil. Or is it axle grease? I’m not sure what vehicular thing actually produces such a smell, but I know I’ll forever think of the scent as eau de broken car.
I bounce my knee and fight the urge to gnaw on a fingernail. Lyle, the guy in charge of the desk, had closed up about twenty minutes ago. But when I’d basically begged that they try to get my car fixed tonight, he said Monroe was going to work on it a little longer. But Lyle hadn’t stuck around to wait with me. He’d pulled the chain on the flashing Open light and had waved good-bye. So now it’s just me and that endless loop of songs. Hit me, Britney, one more time.
Of course, the longer I sit in the closed shop, the more I start thinking slasher-movie thoughts again—the curse of being a creative writing major with a penchant for horror fiction. I can see the story line now . . . Stranded girl with a boyfriend who won’t answer his phone. Mysterious but strangely sexy mechanic probably rigging her car so it would never allow a getaway. No weapons available except a can of Billy’s Custom Cycles ink pens and an empty can of Sprite.
I eye the grimy window that leads out to the shop but can only see the top of my car. Monroe hasn’t given me an update in a while, but I’m guessing the outlook isn’t good. My phone rings, making me jump. When I see the name pop up on the screen, I grab for the thing like it’s the last phone on earth. “Oh my God, finally.”
“Natalie, hey, so sorry,” Caleb says, sounding out of breath and barely audible over the hum of voices in the background. “I just got all of your messages. We’ve been buried. The rally site for tomorrow had to be changed and Carolyn assigned me all these duties. She’s never given me so much responsibility, and . . . well, I couldn’t let her down. I thought I’d be able to get it all taken care of, but I lost track of time and now I’m stuck out here. Man, I’m really sorry. I know it’s your birthday. I swear I’ll make it up to you . . .”
“You’re not coming to get me?” I say, failing to keep the edge of you’ve-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me out of my tone.
He sighs. “I’m not in my car. I rode with Randy. Can you call Jess?”
“She’s gone home for the weekend. I told you—”
“Baby, look, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to call a cab or something. They need me for a few more hours. And I’ve got to go. But I promise, I’ll make it up to you next week, okay? Love ya.”
“But—” The phone clicks before I can protest. I pull it away from my ear and stare at it like it bit me. “Seriously?”
A cab? Did he forget we weren’t living in New York? This is Austin. Unless you’re at the airport or a downtown hotel, there are no cabs rolling around looking for passengers. I’d have to call a service, which would take forever to get here. And it would cost me a fortune from this far out.
“Your knight heading over on his white horse?”
The low, rumbling voice jerks my attention upward. I automatically clutch my phone to my chest like I don’t want anyone to see that it’s let me down. Monroe gives me a ghost of a smile.
“I don’t need a white horse. I need my car.”
“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been trying to work a miracle.” He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tucks it in the back pocket of the grease-stained blue jumpsuit he put on over his other clothes. The move looks smooth and natural, like he’s been doing this forever and the towel is somehow a part of him. “But I’m afraid there aren’t going to be any angels singing tonight.”
“But that Lyle guy told me you were making progress.”
“Progress, yes. Success? No. Believe me, I tried to do a few work-arounds to see if I could get her going. But you need a part that we don’t have in stock. I’m going to have to order it, and it’ll take at least a day to get here.”
My shoulders sag. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do anything about it tonight.” He walks from behind the counter to lean against the front of it. His arms cross over his chest as he considers me.
I try not to notice how the grease smudge on his jaw makes him look both menacing and distractingly attractive. God, what is my deal tonight? This guy’s giving me bad news, and my hormones decide to go rogue. Maybe it’s the Britney songs.
“My boyfriend got held up at work. He can’t come pick me up.”
“I thought you had a date tonight.”
“We did. But there’s some crisis at his internship.”
He frowns. “He’s leaving his girl stranded for a crisis at a job that he’s not even getting paid for? Nice guy.”
I press my lips together, my defenses rising. “He takes his job seriously. He’s not going to bail on his responsibilities.”
Monroe takes the clipboard of paperwork I’d filled out and left on the front counter. “Looks like he’s bailing on you, princess. In my book, that’s dropping a pretty important responsibility.”
My spine stiffens. If I had feathers, they’d be fluffed. “Last I checked, it’s not 1952. I’m his girlfriend, not a responsibility. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” His eyes skim over the yellow papers. “But that doesn’t mean . . . Ah, come on, really?”
“What?”
He flips the clipboard toward me and points at a line on the insurance verification form. “It’s your birthday. The dude is ditching you for work on your birthday?”
“It’s not a big deal . . . I mean, we can do it some other—”
He tosses the clipboard back onto the counter. “You can lie to yourself, princess, but you’re not going to convince me. Twenty-one is supposed to be one of the best birthdays. And no girl gets herself all, you know”—he waves a hand, indicating my outfit—“because it’s a no-big-deal night.”
I clench my jaw.
Monroe walks over and swipes the phone out of my hand. “What’s Romeo’s name?”
“Hey, give that back.” I jump to my feet and reach for my phone.
But he steps back and holds it up. “Smile.”
I grit my teeth. “Give. It. Back.”
“Pissed and mean, even better.” He grins and takes a pic with my phone.
“What the hell?” I stalk toward him, but he backpedals until he’s behind the counter, scrolling through my phone.
“There it is, Caleb with the little heart symbol next to it,” Monroe says triumphantly. His thumbs fly over the screen, typing. “Hope . . . work . . . is . . . worth . . . missing . . . this.”
“Oh my God.” I lunge around the counter, but Monroe slides out of reach and shows me the screen. He hasn’t hit Send on the message yet, but the pic of me is there—cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and my cleavage on prominent display. I don’t look like myself. I look kind of dangerous. And hot. Go me.