by Box Set
~Jessica~
Nobody ever expects a Mustang convertible.
Especially not Duane Winston leaning against a dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe. The convertible had a white top and racing stripe, not Duane. He was wearing faded, bootcut blue jeans that fit nice and snug over his hips, and a charcoal colored thermal. As I approached—after I recovered from my surprise—I noticed the shirt’s color made his eyes appear almost gray.
He wasn’t smiling, but I did have all his focus, and Duane’s focus made me self-conscious and unsteady. Therefore, my smile was dreamy and reflexive.
“What are you doing here?” I gestured to the high school parking lot. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just received a text message from my brother Jackson; he was on his way to pick me up so I was coming outside to wait.
Instead of answering my question, Duane leaned forward, placed his hand on my hip, and gave me a soft kiss that stole my breath and made every inch of my skin hot.
Then he leaned away, his hand falling back to his side, and answered simply, “I’m bringing you your car.”
My mouth fell open for obvious reasons and I blinked at him. “My…my car?”
“Yes.” He gave me just the faintest shadow of a grin. “Your car. You can keep it if you want, or you can give it back when you find something better.”
“What are you talking about?” My attention moved past him to the gorgeous vintage automobile. He’d backed it into a parking space at the front of the school. I didn’t know much about cars, but this car was beautiful.
“While we negotiate a price for your truck you need a car, for getting around, back and forth to work. Take this one for as long as you like.”
I struggled to form both words and thought; finally I managed, “Duane, first of all…whose car is this? I mean, who does it belong to? Won’t they miss it?”
“No. It’s one of mine. I hardly use it.” He reached for my hand and placed the keys in my palm.
“One of yours?”
“Yeah.”
I couldn’t stop blinking at him. “I can’t take your car.”
He shrugged. “Sure you can.”
“It’s a classic! I mean, I’m no expert on cars, but this isn’t a recent model. This must be over thirty years old.”
“About fifty years, actually. It’s a 1966 Mustang 289.”
Now I was blinking and shaking my head, and my thoughts were a breathy whisper when they slipped out, “You’re crazy.”
He finally smiled, though it was swift and gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. I made a mental note that Duane Winston liked it when I called him crazy.
“Take it for a test drive.” His hands were on me again, steering me to the driver’s side door. He opened it and gently pushed me inside, taking the bag from my shoulder and setting it on the floor behind my seat.
Meanwhile, I was greedily devouring the inside of the classic car with my eyes, unthinkingly slipping the keys into the ignition, pressing the clutch, and turning it on. It was…majestic. Something about the car almost felt alive, even sitting idle, humming beneath my fingers, anxious for the road.
Duane claimed the passenger seat and I glanced at him, finding his attention affixed to my face and a warmth there that made my heart race.
“What?” I narrowed eyes at him.
“Are you going to touch it or drive it?”
“Honestly? I haven’t made up my mind.” I stroked the steering wheel. It was covered in soft white leather. In fact, all the upholstery was white leather; the inside smelled like leather and Duane’s cologne. “I don’t think…I mean, I don’t know if I can.”
“Don’t you know how to drive a stick?”
“Yes. But that’s not what I meant.” I let go of the wheel and faced him, clasping my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t reach for it again. “I mean, I don’t understand what’s going on. I should get a rental car in Knoxville until I find a replacement for the truck, something newer.”
“No. You shouldn’t.” He wasn’t smiling now. In fact, he looked frustrated. “That’d be a waste of money. This Mustang is a classic, yes. And, sure, it has over six hundred thousand miles on it. But I’ve rebuilt the engine and most of the other parts are new. It has new tires, brakes, suspension. It runs as good as a new car, I wouldn’t let you drive anything unsafe. You’re not going to have any problems with it, and it handles the mountain roads real well.”
I shook my head and reached for his hand, seeing he’d mistaken my meaning. “That’s not what I meant. I trust that this car handles like it looks—beautifully.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is this car is a classic. It is far too valuable for me to use as a loaner.”
“Then it’s not a loaner. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”
My mouth fell open again and a small sound of confused protest escaped. “Duane.”
“Jess.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious.” He looked serious.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need a car and I have four.” He shrugged.
“You could sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a bundle.”
“I can’t sell it because I just gave it to you.”
I gritted my teeth before hollering, “You can’t give me a car!”
He lifted his voice to match the volume of mine. “I just did!”
I stared at him, the stubborn set of his square jaw, the way his left eyebrow was slightly raised in challenge. He was so stubborn and irritating…and cute. And sweet. And thoughtful. And presumptuous.
“I’m not taking it,” I said finally, shaking my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“Quit being so stubborn.”
“Being rational isn’t being stubborn. You can’t just go around giving people cars. You’re not Oprah.”
Duane’s lips flattened in a way that made me think he was trying not to laugh because his eyes were shining. “What gave me away? Was it the red hair?”
Without thinking, and in a way reminiscent of our bickering childhood, I responded flatly, “No. It was the feel of your circumcised penis last week.”
Duane lost his battle with laughter and threw his head back, eliciting an unbidden smile from me. I exhaled a chuckle and rolled my eyes, feeling remarkably pleased I’d made him laugh. I think I was even blushing, which was strange. Making Duane Winston laugh flushed me with pleasure, or maybe it was the intoxicating sight of how much he seemed to enjoy it, enjoy being with me.
Still grinning widely—which in and of itself looked foreign and therefore dazzling on his face—he said, “But before last week, you still had doubts as to my identity?”
“Well, I’ve never seen you and Oprah in the same room together. Plus you both have your favorite things lists.” I was making reference to his statement last Friday, that arguing with me was one of his favorite things.
“Do you have a favorite things list?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” My neck was abruptly hot.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking on my trouser department, haven’t you?”
Flustered, I shook my head. “Getting back to the topic at hand—”
“Is it? At hand? I wasn’t aware.”
“Duane Winston!” I tried to sound shocked and foreboding, but my involuntary answering smile was ruining the effect. “I’m attempting to be serious. Stop trying to muddle me.”
“If I were trying to muddle you, then you’d know it.”
I tsked, then huffed. “When'd you get so sassy?”
“When'd you get so serious?”
“I’m not! I just can’t accept this car.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Same thing.”
“Nope. Not the same.” He plucked my hand from where it rested on my lap and held it in both of his, sending a warm, delightful sensation of loveliness up my arm and around
my brain. “Jessica James, you’re going to have to get used to me wanting to take care of you and fix your troubles.”
“I’m not a damsel. I don’t need rescuing.”
“I know. You’re capable and stubborn, and I like that about you a whole lot. But maybe you could pretend to be a little less capable from time to time?”
“To what end?”
“So I get to feel good about rescuing you.”
I smirked at this logic. His request actually reminded me of my mom and dad. Sometimes my mother would pretend she couldn’t open a jar in the kitchen or that she needed help lifting something heavy. When I’d called her on it, she’d said, “Nothing wrong with making your man feel needed. If your Aunt Louisa had done the same then she wouldn’t be so lonely in that big house of hers.”
“Let me help,” he implored. “Use this car.”
“I don’t want to take advantage.”
All trace of his earlier smile had vanished and he appeared to be completely sincere. “You won’t be. It’ll settle my mind, knowing you’re driving something I built.”
I sighed, considering him and his request. “So, it would be a loaner?”
“Sure.” He shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“And what do you expect in return?”
“Pardon me?” he asked, looking confused tinged with horrified. “I don’t want anything.”
I narrowed my eyes further and teased, “Tell me, Oprah, what are you after? Penis strokes? More frigid skinny-dipping? What?”
Catching on, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth; his held just a hint of a smile as he responded, “I’ll take a rain check on the stroking and skinny-dipping, but how about a kiss?”
I’d already wanted to kiss him.
So I did.
I grabbed a fistful of his gray thermal and tugged, bringing his lips to mine suddenly, and I kissed him.
BAM!
Infuriatingly, he didn’t seem at all surprised. He quickly took control, one hand fisting in my hair, angling my head as he liked, the other digging into my hip as he pulled me closer. He licked my lips and surged forward, giving the impression of requesting entrance without actually waiting for my consent.
It didn’t matter. My pleasure moan gave me away, a sound of surrender. His hot mouth moved over mine, the sweep of his tongue sending a thrill straight down my spine, making me feel frenzied and cherished all at once.
But then the whoop whoop of a police car scared the bejeebus out of me, and I jumped away. Duane released me as I spun toward the sound, my heart in my throat.
“What the hell is going on here?” I found my brother Jackson barking and glaring at us. He’d pulled his cruiser parallel to the Mustang and rolled down his window.
I sighed, closing my eyes, and letting my head fall back on the head rest. I swallowed before I reprimanded my brother. “Jackson! You scared me half to death.”
“I repeat, what the hell is going on here?” Jackson didn’t sound repentant, he sounded irate.
I shook my head without opening my eyes, couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from my chest. “What does it look like?”
“Jessica…” he warned, his voice rough.
I opened my eyes and grinned at my older brother, pressing the clutch and shifting the beautiful car into first gear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thoroughly enjoying his shocked expression.
My brother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you dare. Have you lost your mind?”
“No, I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve found a car, and look! It has a Duane in it. Now if you’ll excuse me, my Duane and I really must be going.”
And with that, I pulled out of the space Duane had backed into, and turned the car in the opposite direction of home.
He was right, the car handled beautifully.
This car was powerful and light. My beast truck was powerful but heavy. It was actually fun to drive. I’d never driven a car like it before, one with personality and eager responsiveness, like the automobile was a willing and eager participant in its motion. Driving felt like more than just traveling from one place to the next. It felt like an experience. An odd thought entered my head thirty minutes after first pressing on the gas pedal: I was falling in love with this car.
Duane was quiet while I drove. I didn’t know where I was taking us and his silence felt introspective. Every once in a while I felt his eyes on me, but he kept his hands to himself.
I made no attempt at conversation, partially because the windows were down and the rush of wind meant I would have to shout to be heard. The other reason was because the silence felt comfortable.
We crossed the mountain, taking the Parkway to Cades Cove, and I pulled into the picnic area, searching for a parking spot farthest from the rest of the cars, trucks, and campers. At the tip of the loop I spotted an isolated spot where no tourists appeared to be nearby. I pulled in and cut the ignition, but left the keys where they were.
Without the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind, the near soundlessness that surrounded us felt deafening and heavy, like the end of a ballad. But soon the whisper of flowing water, rustling of leaves, and song of birds met my ears, and alleviated the hefty stillness that had settled between us.
I glanced at Duane from the corner of my eye and found him watching me. Not staring, just watching, like he was waiting to see what I would do next. His expression was inscrutable and therefore unsettling.
I cleared my throat, clasping my hands on my lap, and gave him a small smile. It likely looked guilty, because I felt a little guilty for the way I’d used Duane to irritate my brother.
“Are you still doing that?” he asked, shifting in his seat until his back half rested against the passenger side door, like he needed distance to see me clearly.
“Still doing what?” I tucked my hair—now likely a crazy mess—behind my ears and met his eyes directly.
“Still trying to upset the men in your family?”
I huffed a laugh and answered honestly, “Yes. I guess I am. It’s just too much fun, getting Jackson all riled up.”
“I understand the desire to annoy your brother, because he is annoying. But your daddy…he’s a good man, steady, hard worker. You should cut him a break.”
“I know. I am and I do…mostly. But in all fairness, if my father had found us kissing in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have turned on his siren and pitched a fit. He’d have invited you over for dinner.”
“And I would have accepted.” Duane nodded at his own assertion and added, “I want to do this right.”
Something about the way he said the words filled me with both pleasure and dread.
On Wednesday after leaving the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—with the benefit of wine, Claire’s analysis, and hindsight—I started to be of the mind that Duane Winston wanted to court me. Courting meant a long-term relationship with marriage and a white picket fence being the end goal. Marriage and white picket fences terrified me because they sounded like the end of freedom, the end of my dreams.
Suddenly, the inside of the car felt stifling. I tore my eyes from his, opened my door and exited the car, walking to the hood and pausing, not sure where I was going. I listened as he also exited, his door closing, the sound of his boots crossing to me, crunching over gravel and crispy leaves.
Duane fit his hand in mine and I looked up at him. He frowned at me—not an upset frown, just a thoughtful one—and tugged on our connected fingers. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I acquiesced and allowed him to lead me over the log barriers and boulders, down the path to a stream. Something about his presence and touch, the way he moved with confidence, the broadness of his shoulders, and his inherent strength calmed me. I found myself settling into the moment, deciding not to think too far into the future.
Tall trees rose high overhead on either side of the embankment and crystal clear water displayed colorful, rounded stones paving the shallow riverbed. I smiled at
the sight of several children farther down picking their way across the rocks. Their chatter and laughter carried to us, even though they were at least fifty yards away.
Duane let go of my fingers and crouched down. I watched as he untied the laces of his boots and I understood his plan at once. I turned, found a boulder, and perched at the edge of it, slipping off my comfortable work shoes and math-themed socks and setting them on the rock.
The water would be cold, but that was no matter. I wasn’t planning on falling in this time.
When we both had our shoes off, we held hands again and waded in to the stream. It was only calf deep at the lowest spot, but it was relatively wide. In the spring it would be deeper, the water would move faster, and I wouldn’t be able to wear my sensible black pencil skirt without getting it wet.
“You okay?” Duane asked, his thoughtful frown still in place.
I nodded and bent down to retrieve a blue rock from beneath the water and straightened. I held the stone up to the sun and studied the veins of white running through it.
Then, apropos of nothing, I said, “When I was ten, my daddy bought me a three-year subscription to National Geographic magazine for my birthday.”
I glanced at Duane, found his thoughtful frown had been replaced by a thoughtful almost smile. “Is that so?”
I nodded, releasing his hand so I could walk a bit farther into the stream. “Yes. According to him, I’d wanted the magazine since I was four and a half. I first saw it at the library and asked Santa Claus for it every year. And it wasn’t the kid version either. I didn’t want the kid version. I wanted the real thing.”
“Why did you want it so much?”
“I loved seeing pictures and reading stories about the world, especially the places I didn’t know existed. I spent hours getting lost in the pages, imagining myself scuba diving in Fiji, hand-harvesting saffron in Greece, or working with Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees in Africa.” I glanced at him over my shoulder, wanting to see his reaction.
“Chimpanzees?” His smile grew.
“Yes. In Africa.”
The brightness in Duane’s eyes grew radiant, and felt almost overwhelming. He appeared to be pleased—more than pleased—yet I was surprised he didn’t look at all amused. Just interested and happy. Had I ever seen that look directed at me before?
