Page 7 of Sunset Catchers

Kit turns toward me, a charmed grin on her wrinkled face.

“Levi, finally. Meet Winnie. The designer I hired for my project.”

He says nothing. Just does his favorite combo of staring and frowning at me.

“Hi again,” I say. Kit’s brows shot up in surprise. “We actually met at the gas station this morning,” I supply.

“Of course, you did,” Kit says, shaking her head. “Levi used to work there every summer when he was in high school. Always gets out of his way to go there, even if it makes him late to a meeting with his favorite person in the world.”

Now, I’m the one staring and frowning tensely.

Kit is oblivious to our staring and frowning contest.

“The owner, Gary, is a fellow vintage lover and collector. Did you notice the old sign hanging above his shop?” she asks me.

“The With service sign?” Kit bobs her head happily. “Yes. I definitely did,” I confirmed.

“They haven’t offered service for a long while now,” Kit explains, “but it gives some character to the place, so he’s kept it up anyway.”

The smile I’d retained falters as I process that statement.

Levi winces.

I know my face is expressing my current feelings implicitly: eyebrows hugging. Widened, horrified eyes. Mouth slightly open. I bet my complexion is as wan as the time when I barfed at school when I got my period and spent half the day drowsily sleeping in the nurse’s office, since my mom never bothered to answer the call from the school.

“Levi, show Winnie to the tea room, please. I’ll go get some refreshments.”

Levi turns to flee, and I follow him, my feet making a thumping sound against the hardwood floors, then against black and white marble checkered tiles.

Levi steps into the tea room and turns around abruptly—I crash right into him. His hands land on my waist, steadying me. I bat them away, taking a few steps back. I’m even more flustered, now. He holds his hands up, as if he means no offense.

Well, too bad; I’m offended.

His lips part, but I don’t care to hear what he has to say.

“Why, the fuck, didn’t you tell me you were not a gas station attendant?” I whisper shout angrily.

He startles.

Yes, I know. I don’t necessarily appear as if I have a temper—I do dress as if I’m a damsel in distress, occasionally. This being one of said occasions. My cheeks are also plump and always pink with blush.

I do give the impression that I’m even-tempered.

Fun fact: I’m not.

My temper, to put it simply, is easily provoked.

Once he’s over his initial shock, he does something that doesn’t meet my expectations; he smirks.

Sure, it makes his whole face even more striking. And sure, it does heighten my general fluster. But, like, what the fuck?

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he says with a casual shrug. I snort.

“Oh, because this situation is so much less embarrassing?” I say while tucking that same unruly strand of hair behind my ear. It springs back out. “Is that your move? You just go to the gas station, where might I add, advertises that it is, in fact, a place offering service, wearing your coveralls to prey on clueless out-of-towner girls like me?”

He narrows his eyes. “If I remember correctly, you called out to me.”

“Because I thought you were an attendant!”