Page 122 of Rising Heat

“You don’t mind?”

I shake my head toward the stool beside the workbench.

“Stay if you want.”

She sets the basket beside the washing machines before wandering farther into the garage, fingertips trailing lightly across the fender like she’s trying to understand it by touch.

“How long have you had it?”

“About twelve years.”

“Is it done?”

“Depends what you mean by done.”

She looks at me over the hood.

“That sounds like a guy who doesn’t want it to be finished.”

I let my gaze slide over her face.

“It’s something to come back to,” I say.

She nods like she gets it without needing more explanation. I think about the sketchbook she left open on the nightstand. The way she’d described her work once as always having something half-finished she could pick back up.

“Where’d you learn all this?”

“My old man taught us the basics growing up.”

“Tyler, too?”

I nod.

“Then I skipped the college thing and worked at a repair shop for a few years while Tyler finished school.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I knew where I wanted to end up.”

“The fire department.”

“You catch on quick,” I tease.

“I’m beginning to,” she gives me a small smile.

“So you just… waited?”

“Worked. Saved some money. Learned a trade.”

“And Tyler?”

“He graduated, realized he wanted to be a firefighter anyway, and we took the entrance exam together.”

She smiles to herself.

“He followed you.”

“He’d tell you I followed him.”