Rico Marquez, 51, spends 90% of his days hunched over rusted camper frames in his garage, calloused hands working sealant into aluminum seams and stripping water-damaged wood from 1970s Scottys and Airstreams. He’s stubborn to a fault, the kind of guy who still fixes his own truck instead of taking it to a mechanic, who’d rather eat frozen burritos alone at his workbench than show up to the neighborhood block party his next door neighbor badgered him into attending for three straight weeks. He’d only caved because the neighbor promised free craft beer, and he was tired of having his door banged on every evening after work.
He’s leaning against the side of his beat-up 2004 F-150, half-empty can of lager in one hand, scuffing the toe of his work boot in the patchy St. Augustine grass, when she walks up. She’s the woman who moved into the blue bungalow two blocks over three months prior, runs a used bookstore downtown, the one he’d left a snarky comment on the neighborhood Facebook group under when she posted asking if anyone knew a camper restorer. He’d typed “Any hack who says they can fix a rotted floor for under a grand is lying” and logged off, figured he’d never hear anything about it.
She’s holding a paper plate with a slice of peach pie in one hand, sundress sun-bleached at the hem, bare shoulders dotted with faint freckles, and she stops right in front of him, close enough he can smell lavender hand lotion and the sweet, sticky tang of baked peach coming off her wrists. “You’re Rico, right? The camper guy?” She holds the plate out to him, and when he reaches to take it, their fingers brush for half a second, her skin warm and soft against his calloused knuckles. He doesn’t pull away fast.
He nods, takes a bite of the pie before he can think of a snarky response, and it’s good, homemade, crust flaky, peaches ripe enough they burst on his tongue, no weird canned aftertaste. He’d made fun of the “homemade pie contest” the block party was hosting earlier, figured every entry was store-bought with a homemade sticker slapped on the lid. He’s wrong, and he doesn’t hate being wrong for once.
A kid screaming with a water gun runs past, and she steps closer to avoid getting sprayed, her shoulder pressing tight to his through his unbuttoned work flannel. He can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her dress, and she doesn’t step back even when the kid is gone, just tilts her head up to look at him, eye contact steady, no shifty glancing away like most people do when he’s being his usual gruff self. “I saw your comment on the Facebook post. I picked up a 1972 Scotty for $800 last month, floor’s half rotted out, I don’t have the budget to pay your full rate. I did my research, I know what you charge.”
He raises an eyebrow, takes another sip of beer, waits for her to pitch some half-baked barter offer he’s gonna turn down. He’s got six weeks of work backed up, doesn’t need side gigs that don’t pay cash. “I’ve got a whole box of first edition western paperbacks I picked up at an estate sale last month. Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, even that rare copy of *Hondo* you mentioned you were looking for in the book swap thread last month.”
That stops him cold. He’d made that comment at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, half drunk on beer, figured no one even saw it. She’d paid attention. She’d looked him up, paid attention to the stupid random thing he’d posted about, the collection he keeps on the shelf above his workbench that no one but delivery drivers ever see. The logical part of his brain, the part that’s been shut off to anything that isn’t work or beer or old westerns since his ex-wife moved out three years prior, screams that this is a bad idea, that dating within the neighborhood is a disaster waiting to happen, that he likes his quiet, his routine, no messy emotions to deal with. The other part of him, the part he’s been ignoring for just as long, is buzzing, warm, from the way she’s still leaning against his shoulder, the way she’s smiling like she knows he’s gonna say yes.
“Show me the books first,” he says, and she grins, wide and bright, pulls a crumpled napkin out of her purse and scribbles her address on it, folding it twice before tucking it into the breast pocket of his flannel. Her fingers brush the edge of the chest hair peeking out of his undershirt, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a dumb joke about personal space.
“Tomorrow, 10 a.m. I’ll make coffee. Extra cream, I saw you order that at the corner gas station last week.” She winks, turns to walk back to the pie table, her sundress swishing around her calves as she goes. He takes another bite of the pie, sweeter than anything he’s had in years, and when a different kid splashes his jeans with a water gun a minute later, he doesn’t even grumble. He just pulls the napkin out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the smudged ink of her address, and takes another sip of beer.
