Dateline Matrimony. Gina WilkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
pretty waitress ain’t worth the effort—or you’re just taking your time about going after her.”
“Would you stop calling her the pretty waitress? She has a name. Teresa.”
Bud’s bushy, steel-gray eyebrows shot upward in response to his nephew’s testy tone. “Not that you’re interested, of course,” he murmured.
Riley looked pointedly at the big-screen TV. “Watch the race. They’re going green again.”
Knowing when he’d pushed hard enough, Bud crossed his hands over his beer-swollen belly and leaned back against the couch. His feet, like Riley’s, were crossed on the scarred coffee table in front of them. They sat in the living room of Bud’s double-wide mobile home, salvaged from his second divorce five years ago, after dining on a Sunday lunch of chili dogs and Tater Tots.
Riley and Bud tried to get together like this often, since they were the only members of their family still living in Edstown. Sixty-five-year-old Bud had never had children, so he’d always taken a rather fatherly interest in his only brother’s only son, especially after Riley’s parents had retired to Florida almost ten years ago while Riley was a senior in college.
Watching the brightly painted advertising-covered stock cars whizzing past the cameras, Riley changed the subject by asking, “How’s R.L. these days? I haven’t seen him much since he retired from the insurance business.”
“We’re going fishing Wednesday morning. Meeting here at a quarter till six. You want to go with us?”
“No, thanks. I’ll pass. I’m planning on sleeping in that morning.”
“Wuss,” Bud muttered with a chuckle.
“Hey, it’s chilly out on a lake at dawn in the middle of September. There are some parts of my body I don’t want to risk freezing off, okay? I’m not quite finished with them yet.”
Bud laughed, then shook his head. “I keep telling you, you don’t get cold if you dress right. And come mid-morning, it still gets downright hot this time of year.”
“No, really, Bud. Thanks, but it’s just not my thing. You and R.L. go and have a good time, okay?”
“I’m sure we will. ’Course, we’ll miss Truman.”
Riley nodded somberly, never knowing quite what to say when his uncle brought up Truman’s name.
Truman Kellogg, who’d been practically inseparable from Bud O’Neal and R. L. Hightower for nearly fifty years, had died in a house fire almost eight months ago. The remaining two buddies had taken the death hard. Bud hadn’t really been the same since.
Had his pal’s death forced him to confront his own mortality? Or was it simply that he’d never imagined a time when the three of them wouldn’t all be together? The friendship had lasted through their school years, Bud’s and R.L.’s marriages and divorces, the death of Truman’s wife several years ago, good and bad economic turns—it was only natural, Riley supposed, that Bud and R.L. were having a hard time dealing with their loss.
“Good grief, will you look at that?” Bud shook his head in dismay as several cars in the race crashed into the wall and each other. “That wreck’ll put a bunch of ’em behind the wall, I bet.”
“Damn. Martin didn’t have a chance to avoid the mess,” Riley muttered, looking morosely at the formerly sleek race car that was now smashed on both ends from the chain-reaction collisions. The Arkansas-native driver Riley usually rooted for was unharmed, but there was no chance he’d finish the race. “He’s had a hell of a season, hasn’t he? One thing right after another.”
“I know the feeling,” Bud said morosely. And then, before Riley could comment, he asked, “You sure you don’t want me to talk to that pretty little waitress for you? I bet I could convince her you’re not as bad as you’ve probably come across to her.”
“Stay out of my love life.”
Bud snorted, making a visible effort to cheer up. “What love life? Looks to me like you could use all the help you can get. You want another drink?”
“No. And I’m serious, Bud. Don’t you say a word to Teresa.”
His uncle grinned as he headed for the kitchen, leaving Riley feeling decidedly wary.
Riley was on his way to the newspaper office after a routine interview with the mayor Monday afternoon when he spotted Teresa Scott stranded on the side of the road. She was standing beside an aging sedan, looking at a flat tire on the right rear, her pretty face darkened by a frown. He promptly pulled his classic two-seater to the side of the road behind her car.
“Looks like you’ve got a problem,” he said, climbing out of his car.
He could tell that she recognized him immediately. He would have described her expression as resigned. He could almost hear her thinking, “Of course he would be the one to show up now.”
“I can handle it,” she said instead. “It’s only a flat.”
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans while he studied the problem. The tire was deflated down to the rim. “Have you ever changed a flat before?”
“Once,” she replied, probably unaware of the touch of uncertainty in her voice.
“Pop the trunk,” he said, pulling off his thin leather jacket and tossing it into his car. He didn’t want to risk getting it dirty, and it was too warm a day for it, anyway. He just liked wearing it. “I hope you’ve got a jack and a spare.”
“I have both—but I’m quite capable of changing the flat myself.”
“I’m sure you are, but since I’m here, and since I’m hoping to impress you with my efficiency—not to mention my gallantry—I’d be happy to volunteer my services.”
“But I—”
“No strings,” he added. “You don’t even have to thank me, if you don’t want to. Open the trunk, will you?”
She sighed and shoved her key into the trunk lock. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for your help. I’m just accustomed to taking care of my own problems.”
“No, really?” He bent into the neat-as-a-pin trunk, thinking she must vacuum it twice a week. He could have a picnic in there, it was so clean.
“Yes. It’s…easier that way.”
“I agree. Hmm. Full-size spare. You don’t see those very often any more. Note the way my muscles flex as I lift it effortlessly from the trunk.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched her struggle against a smile. “Very impressive,” she said dryly.
“Do anything for you?”
“Yes. It makes me glad you’re the one lifting it and not me.”
“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” he replied in a pseudo-grumble, kneeling beside the flat. She stood out of his way as he went to work.
“There’s your problem.” He pointed to a large metal screw gleaming from within the tread. “Looks like you ran over it recently and the air’s been escaping ever since.”
“A screw? That’s what caused the flat?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You were expecting me to say that someone slashed your tires?”
“Of course not,” she said, looking more annoyed than amused by his teasing.
He often seemed to have that effect on her.
After a few moments Teresa conceded almost reluctantly, “You do that very well. You’ll have it finished a lot more quickly than I would have.”
He spun the lug wrench, unable to resist adding a bit of flair to the movement. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be on the pit crew of a NASCAR team.”