Free Fender Bender Blues by Niecey Roy Page B

seat belt.
    He took in her profile as she stared out the windshield. He’d never met anyone like her. Most women would have made a move on him by now, but Rach wasn’t interested and didn’t mind letting him know it. Maybe he wasn’t her type… What is her type? And why the hell did he care?
    “I’ll get it later, don’t worry about it.” He fought to keep his eyes on the road. Maybe it was all that damn red hair of hers. If he didn’t watch it he’d wreck and this time it would be his fault. In her dad’s car. Not good.
    “So your dad’s a car guy, huh?” he asked. He reached down to fiddle with the radio— eight track player. He grinned and flipped it on and “Hotel California” played on low through the speakers. Her dad had great taste in music unlike his daughter who’d squealed and bounced in her chair in the bar when Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy ” played on the jukebox.
    “‘Spose you got that from the immaculate interior and the shiny wheels,” she chuckled, running her fingers across the plush dash cover. “This has been his baby for as long as I can remember.”
    The adoration and love so clear in her voice for her dad made her less bratty—and kinder—than he’d first pegged her for.
    “I like a man who takes care of his wheels. Shows character,” Craig approved. Rach’s laugh stole his gaze and he drew in a sharp breath at her smiling face. She was very beautiful when her lips weren’t turned down in a frown.
    “You definitely aren’t ever allowed to meet my dad,” she stated, rolling down her window and leaning back against the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, her hair fluttered in the breeze and he hoped she wasn’t going to vomit in the car. “I suppose being a car salesman you have to be a detail freak with your vehicles or you can’t sell them.”
    He wasn’t sure if she was complimenting him or trying to insult him again. Whatever the meaning behind her words, her voice rolled over him like syrup.
    Why he hadn’t called her a cab and been on his way was a mystery. Instead he was driving her across town to take her home when they’d done nothing but fight all night. Stupid.
    “I suppose you’re right. Tell your dad I’m impressed with his ride. It’s in mint condition,” he said, making another turn. He was used to the turning radius by now—there wasn’t one.
    “He’s retired. He washes it three times a week and he polishes the wheels so he can see his reflection in them,” she answered, her voice soft and drowsy now. He considered telling her too much alcohol had that effect on people, but if he tried to scold her she’d only rip his ass.
    Craig glanced down at the crumpled bag on the floor and raised his brows. “So does he know about you and Buster Burger?”
    She nudged her toe at the bag and avoided his eyes. “I’ll take it in the house when I go in.”
    He turned onto her street and a voice inside his head told him, Too soon! Rach was already opening the passenger door before he could shut off the engine.
    Okay, so she didn’t enjoy his company. She wasn’t alone. He’d discovered early on in the evening that Rachel Bennett was someone he could only endure in moderation.
    Craig trotted behind her across the damp grass under the light of the half moon. He hopped up the stone steps of the porch just as she shoved the front door open and flipped the light on inside. He didn’t hesitate to walk in behind her, shutting the door on the dark night.
    The smell of apples and cinnamon rushed his senses, reminding him of Christmas and apple pie. He hadn’t pegged her as the baking type. Baking a pie was too domestic and not for a woman who’d enjoyed busting his chops for two hours straight.
    He reached down to rub at his sore shin. When his mom baked she hummed. Craig couldn’t imagine Rach humming over an apple pie.
    Maybe cussing over an apple pie . The image made him chuckle.
    The woman in question raised her auburn brows in challenge and he