Her hand brushed his calf through the frayed leg of his jeans, and he caught a whiff of lavender and pine soap, no cloying perfume, no synthetic body spray. He recognized her immediately: Maren, the woman who’d bought the old general store two blocks from his shop three months prior, turned it into a hybrid used bookstore and record shop, the one who’d waved at him every time he drove past like they were old friends even though they’d never exchanged more than 10 words. She stayed crouched for a beat longer than necessary, then looked up, her hazel eyes locking with his, no awkward look-away, no flustered grin, just a half-smirk like she knew he’d been avoiding her on purpose.
Elias’s flaw was that he’d spent 12 years building walls after his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent with a six-figure salary and a house in the suburbs, decided all women his age either wanted a free handyman or a plus-one to their friend’s weddings, no exceptions. He opened his mouth to tell her the beer stain didn’t matter, he could just hose his boot off later, but she beat him to it, nodding at the grease crusted under his fingernails like she’d been studying them. “I found a 1972 Triumph Bonneville parts manual in a box of donations last week,” she said, pushing herself to her feet, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she stood. “Been meaning to drop it by your shop. Figured you’d get more use out of it than I would.”
Elias laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make often, and teased her about the combat boots she was wearing with her sundress, the moth tattoo curling around her left wrist. She teased him back about his faded Harley hat with the hole in the brim, the way he’d parked his truck as far away from the festival crowds as possible like he was planning a getaway. When the raffle announcer called his name to hand over the bike keys, she stood up with him, followed him to the stage, and when he was done posing for photos with the fire chief, she tugged on his wrist to pull him off to the side, out of the crowd.
“I’ve got a bottle of 12-year bourbon back at the shop,” she said, her thumb brushing the scar on his wrist he’d gotten when a kickback from a Harley engine split the skin 10 years prior. “And a stack of 1980s Cycle World magazines I picked up at an estate sale last month. Also a first edition On the Road you can gawk at if you’re nice. You coming?”
