Barbara Dunlop - Overheated

He tore his gaze from her body, scooped the other smoothie from the countertop, and followed her.

Crystal chose a corner table between a potted fig and a glass wall that overlooked the park. The ceiling was lower here than in the pool area, dampening the echoes of the growing swim crowd.

Larry rushed forward to help with her chair, and she turned to give him a bemused smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He took the chair opposite, setting his drink on the table.

“So, you bucked the family business,” she began, dabbing her straw up and down.

“I did,” he agreed, struggling to keep his gaze from straying below her neck.

“Were they disappointed?”

“That I became a professor instead of a mechanic?”

She tipped her head sideways. “It sounds strange when you say it that way.”

“Only to people who don’t understand the value of a good mechanic.”

“And you do?”

“I became a professor, because I’d make a lousy mechanic.”

“And I became a parts driver, because I made a lousy model.”

“You were a model?” It didn’t surprise him.

“For a couple of months. I hated it.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

“The sum total of your being is reduced to the size of your waist and the length of your legs.”

He couldn’t help it, his gaze dipped down. Luckily, she didn’t notice.

She wiggled forward in her chair. “I felt like some kind of a mechanical Barbie doll. Face this way. Walk that way. Frown, pout, stare. And all those people.” She shuddered. “Ogling you. They pretend it’s about the clothes, but half of them are checking out your body.”

“Why did you try it in the first place?”

“I was in college, and the money was good.”

“What was your major?” he asked, feeling himself relax in a way he rarely did around women.

“Creative writing, plus some history and anthropology.”

“But you became a parts driver?”

“Unlike you, I didn’t buck the family business.”

He nodded, remembering the logo on the side of her van. “Softco Machine Works.”

“Mom and Dad are good for a paycheck.”

“Do you write at all?” He knew it was tough to make a living as a writer.

She nodded, sliding her fingertip through the condensation on her glass. Larry had to remind himself to take a drink of his own melting concoction.

“Short stories mostly, based on the lives of the women who settled the South. That’s why I like driving for Softco. It’s part-time, and the hours are flexible. If I’m working on a story, I can come in late or take off early.”

“That sounds fascinating,” he told her honestly.

“Mostly it’s traffic lights and getting cut off by sports cars.”

“You know what I meant.”

“It’s fascinating,” she agreed. “Particularly the interviews. And I’m working on a cookbook and anthology that my publisher thinks might pay off.”

“Tell me about it.” Larry took a long pull on the pineapple-mango smoothie, wondering how he could possibly segue from a cookbook to a date.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, CRYSTAL had to settle for bran cereal instead of cold, leftover pepperoni pizza. On the bright side, she now had a dozen cans of dog food, a shiny black dog dish and a leather leash dangling from one of the hooks beside her kitchen door. On the down side, she might have to ask her mother for an advance this week.

Rufus was curled up, asleep on the woven mat in front of the fireplace. It would have been a picture-perfect scene, if the fireplace had worked, if it wasn’t ninety degrees outside and if Rufus hadn’t snored like a longshoreman. The dog had remained aloof for the past two days. He was polite, but clearly confused, and he still had an air of watchfulness and waiting about him.

The phone rang, and he jumped to his feet.

“It won’t be for you, boy,” she said, then added, “Sorry.”

Still, he watched her closely while she crossed the faded, yellow linoleum to retrieve the cordless phone from the top of the washing machine. The readout showed it was her mother from downstairs in the office.

She clicked the talk button. “Hey, Mom.”

The computerized lathes and milling machines rumbled in the background. “Are you up?” called Stella Hayes.

“I’ve been up for an hour,” said Crystal. It was way too hot to sleep late.

“Good. Norman’s been up since four this morning machining a backup axle for Dean Grosso, just in case, and we need a delivery driver.”

Crystal experienced a moment’s hesitation.

The Dean Grosso garage might bring her into contact with Larry again. Not that that was a bad thing. It was simply a…strange thing.

There was something about the man that made her restless and edgy, not to mention uncharacteristically expansive. When she thought back over their conversation, she couldn’t believe how much she’d rattled on about her Colonial cookbook and anthology project.

She also couldn’t believe a man who was helping the world explore the asteroid belt had been interested in her writing project. Looking back, she worried that he’d simply been humoring her.

When she’d asked, he’d admitted he was consulting on an ion propulsion engine for NASA. Although most of the technicalities escaped her, Larry explained how a blue beam of light that could barely push a piece of paper on earth could eventually propel a spaceship to thousands of miles an hour. The man was a bona fide rocket scientist.

“Crystal?” her mother prompted.

“Sorry, Mom.”

Rufus gave up and went back to the mat.

“Can you drive today?”

“Sure.” Everybody pitched in during race week. Besides, Stella was as practical and no-nonsense as they came. Crystal could hardly explain that she didn’t want to go because she got a funny feeling from a man who might be at the track.

“Give me fifteen minutes?” asked Crystal.

“The axle will be ready when you are.”

Crystal set down the phone and gazed at Rufus. She’d taken him for a walk first thing this morning. But for some reason, he hadn’t seemed able to find the right spot to do his business. She didn’t dare leave him inside or load him into the truck without walking him now.

She slipped into a pair of running shoes and retrieved the leash.

“Walk, Rufus?” she asked.

His uneven ears perked up.

She jingled the leash.

He came to his feet, looking at least a little bit interested in the activity as he padded toward her.

“Good for you,” she crooned, scratching him on the head as she clipped onto his worn, leather collar

She scooped her purse from the counter, popped a cap on her head, then locked up behind her.

She led him down the long staircase to the paved parking lot behind the office. They crossed to the wooded area out back, taking the trail that skirted Stanley Pond.

Happily, as soon as she let him off the leash, Rufus got right down to business.

Afterward, she clipped him back on and took the long way around to the bay door and the delivery truck. She might be committed to temporarily fostering Rufus, but her mother would find a dog entirely impractical. And Crystal wasn’t ready to have that argument just yet.

So she hustled him into the passenger seat and shut the door before tracking down the shop foreman to get the paperwork for the delivery.

While she drove, she tried not to think about whether Larry would be at his brother’s garage. He’d said he didn’t spend much time down there. And, really, it was of little consequence.

He was a nice guy, sure. And they’d had a fun chat over smoothies. She was impressed by his intellect and, she’d admit, she kind of liked his formal, courteous manner.

The man had actually pulled out her chair. She smiled at the memory. Even more impressive, they’d carried on an hour-long conversation. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had shown such a strong interest in her thoughts and ideas. Simon never had.

Which meant she was probably hanging out with the wrong kind of men. Something to think about for the future.

She swung north on I-85, glancing at her watch, thinking maybe she’d try to stay at the track for the race. There was no law that said she had to watch it from her parents’ living room. She could buy a ticket for the grandstands, or maybe she could wrangle a pit pass, and maybe she’d meet up with Larry again.

She made up her mind. If Larry was there, she’d ask him to get her a pit pass.

The odds of her running into him amidst the two-hundred odd thousand spectators was slim. But, if lightning did strike twice, she promised herself she’d ask. Maybe they’d chat some more. Maybe she’d figure out what it was she was supposed to be feeling about him.

At the track, she carefully maneuvered between haulers, service vehicles and hundreds of people rushing to get ready for the race. The noise level was high, the excitement level even higher.

She squeezed the delivery truck as close as she could get to the Cargill Motorsports garage and lined the back of the truck up with the bay door. Before shutting off the motor, she lowered both windows to give Rufus some fresh air.

He yawned and stretched, finding a more comfortable position on the seat, his ears flopping over the edge. She gave him a scratch on the head, and a sigh whooshed through his body.

“You have a dog,” came a familiar male voice through her open window.

She turned to find herself face-to-face with Larry, his eyes taking on a green tone in the bright sunlight.

Something lurched in her chest, and she went breathless. “I’m fostering him,” she managed.

“I’ve never had a dog,” said Larry.