Chapter Six
Dallas
The truck wouldn’tstart.
Hannah, obviously more interested in its inner workings than the safety of her surroundings, had her head under the hood. Dallas aimed the flashlight for her and eyeballed the tiny parking lot behind the brewery with disapproval and mounting concern.
The Grand Master Brewery sat at the wrong end of an okay neighborhood. The parking lot had been crammed as an afterthought into the leftover space between the brewery on the front, an appliance store in behind, and the backside of a squat, ugly laundromat. The tight narrow driveway between the brewery and the laundromat posed an impromptu but highly effective sobriety test for anyone considering drinking and driving. The lone pole lamp didn’t work, meaning the lot was a breeding ground for drug deals and other clandestine activities that generally took place in the shadows. Nine of the ten parking spaces were empty.
The garbage bins, however, were full, and judging by the smell, aged to a compostable state. A low-hanging, yeasty, fermented grain odor further enhanced their appeal. The patches of grass peering through the cracked asphalt were plain to be seen thanks to the brilliance of the Montana night sky. Not even this parking lot could dim such magnificence.
“Love what you’ve done with the backyard,” he remarked, leaning against the truck’s rust-speckled cab and speaking to the back of her head. “Add a barbecue, some patio furniture, a few potted plants, and you’ve got yourself your own private oasis.” Because why not make the drug dealers and rapists feel right at home.
She muttered “poopy-sticks” under her breath, but it was directed at the engine, not him, which made him grin. She was cute when she lost her temper.
The strap of her pink thong peeked between the waist of her shorts and the hem of her T-shirt as she hoisted herself deeper into the greasy pit. Her taste in underwear had surprised him the first time he’d encountered it. She’d seemed more the type of girl Dan’s mom called “wholesome.” Now, it explained a few things. Her ex-boyfriend definitely hadn’t been paying enough attention to her or her needs.
“Hold the light still,” she said.
He adjusted the flashlight’s position as per her instructions, crossed his legs, and made himself more comfortable while he watched her work, even though the truck was more in need of a mortician than a mechanic. “You could drive my car, you know. I’ll have to pick it up tomorrow, anyway.”
Hannah’s head popped up for a second. She flicked a strand of hair off her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek. “That’s plan B. Right now, this is personal.” She dove back under the hood.
He liked her persistence. If he was ever on life support, he’d want her in charge of the plug. She’d leave no option unexplored.
And she made teasing her fun. This was what it had been like when they first met—there’d been an easy back-and-forth between them that he’d truly enjoyed. She’d followed him onto the dance floor, then later…
He’d enjoyed that dance, as well. He could have sworn she had, too.
“You do realize the truck didn’t die just to spite you, right?” he said.
“It’s not dead. It’s relaxing.”
“It’s got to be thirty years old. In dog years, that’s…” Dallas double-checked the math in his head. “Two hundred and ten. Besides, you know what they say about sleeping dogs. Maybe you should let this one lie. Besides.” He aimed the flashlight beam at the ground by his foot, where a black puddle seeped from under the wheel and blinked against the sudden bright light. “I think it’s incontinent. That’s never a good sign.”
She gripped the frame, leaned away from the hood, and looked down at the puddle. She sighed. Then she kicked the truck’s driver-side tire with the toe of her white sneaker. “I give you premium unleaded and this is the thanks I get in return.”
“Why don’t I call a cab and leave you to grieve in private,” he suggested. “I could call a priest, too. I’m sure Father Patrick would be happy to give it last rites.”
Hannah wiped her hands on her shorts and straightened the hem of her T-shirt. The flash of pink vanished. “No need to call Father Patrick just yet. You’re a doctor. What about the Heimlich maneuver or something?”
He weighed sympathy for her situation against her willingness to accept that not even Dr. Frankenstein could reanimate this corpse. Since it was possible she didn’t have the money for a new truck, sympathy won.
“Seriously, I can call a cab.”
Her jaw took on a stubborn set that suggested her nature wasn’t always as agreeable as it seemed on the surface. He liked that, too. Who wanted a woman who only did what she was told?
“The taproom offers a taxi service to its paying customers. I’ll call the cab,” she said.
Grand had two taxi companies. Both were hit and miss after midnight. Mostly miss. He suspected she wasn’t aware of that fact, not that it mattered. Her pride was at stake and he’d let her keep it—but up to a point.
“In the time it takes for a cab to get here, we could both be home, in bed, and asleep.” And didn’t that statement take his thoughts places. “Besides, I got the last drink for free,” he reminded her. “That means I’m not really a paying customer. How about if we move on to plan B and you drive me home in my car, then we call it even?”
“You bought drinks for Allan and his friends.”
“I can hardly call them for a ride, if that’s what you’re suggesting. They’ve been drinking.” Dallas dug his keys out of his pocket and passed them to her. “I’m parked on the street. You should try it. There’s proper lighting and everything, meaning less chance of having your hubcaps stolen.”
She tucked her lips between her teeth and jiggled his keys in her palm. “This is my home you’re insulting, Dr. Tucker.”