Homecoming: Part I

Even though Kate completely ignored my NO TXT SPK golden rule (really, capital letters and punctuation are important, people!), I was intrigued by her random AU couples fic challenge. So, mechanic and customer, part one. Part two will be tomorrow or the day after.

Rating: A. Purely for Ashley’s swearing. SFW.

* * * * *

Having the cars detailed was one of the few parts of dealing with my father’s estate that I suppose I could say I was actively looking forward to. Since I had first started visiting Dad’s family home, back in grade school, the highlight of my year had always been taking a spin in one of his classic sports cars with my father. I can still recall the feeling of being next to my dad, the top down, the sun beating down on us both as we sang along to songs on the radio together. It was the closest I ever felt to having a real father who, you know, actually gave a shit.

When he was alive, Raife Davies had collected some of the most beautiful cars in the world. Out of loyalty and friendship, he had employed his high school buddy, Arthur Carlin, the local mechanic, to look after them all, rather than have them shipped up to the city. So, in between battered Ford pick-ups and old Chevies, Carlin Autos got to work on our vintage Auburns and Porshes and Jaguars and Mustangs and Mercedes-Benzes. Arthur became both an expert on classic cars and a real fixture at the house. I guess I’ve just always associated Arthur with the happiest times of my life.

When we spoke last Monday, even just from hearing his voice, I could easily picture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled; he has one of the kindest faces I’ve ever known. We’d made the necessary arrangements – Arthur already had keys to the main gate and the garage so didn’t even need me to be around – and said our goodbyes. As I suspected, just seeing Arthur made me feel considerably better. Wednesday, he worked all morning before I invited him in for some lunch. Once Arthur started talking about Dad, telling stories about their childhood and Dad’s life since he left Christine and me and moved back here, the afternoon seemed to disappear. We drank coffee, ate cheesecake and talked and laughed. It was the best that I’ve felt in the weeks since the fatal crash that took my father.

Thursday, though, I had a bit of business with Dad’s local lawyers so I wasn’t around when Arthur arrived. When I got back mid-morning, I heard the sound of an engine being tuned and knew that he must be hard at work. Heading straight to the kitchen, I took a pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and poured two glasses over ice. Haphazardly tipping a pile of cookies onto a plate, I put the plate and glasses on a tray. As I walked towards the cavernous garage that housed all the cars, I whistled happily to myself, thinking that I might be able to persude Arthur into filling in a few more of the blanks in my father’s life for me.

Setting the tray down on a tool table, I followed the sound of the humming engine over to a 1955 Porsche Spyder which was up on a jack. Dad bought it because James Dean had been driving one when he died, but Dad always did have a sense of the macabre. All I could see of Arthur was the bottom of his overalls and his booted feet sticking out from under side of the vehicle. Kicking the sole of one of his boots lightly, I called out, “Snack time, handsome!”

Instead of Arthur, though, what I actually heard was a thud and a decidedly feminine voice exclaiming, “Son of a humping bitch!” A mechanic’s trolley shot out from under the Porsche to reveal a devastatingly attractive blonde who was rubbing her forehead and looking decidedly unamused. “What the hell are you playing at? I could have seriously injured myself!”

I couldn’t answer right away because my mouth was drier than a Mormon wedding. Her khaki mechanics’ overalls were unzipped to the waist, showing off a dirty once-white singlet underneath. I had to mentally tell my eyes to quit staring at her cleavage and actually look at the face of my unexpected guest. I don’t blame my eyes for not wanting to obey, though. I swear, this girl was a ten by any standard. You know how straight girls always say they’d go gay for someone like Angelina Jolie or her junior skankier equivalent, Megan Fox? Well, that was clearly only because they’d never witnessed this vision of complete and utter perfection sprawled at my feet. She could turn a nun is what I’m saying. And I ain’t no nun and don’t need turning.

“You’re not Arthur,” I finally managed to say weakly.

The blonde pushed herself up to a sitting position and retorted sardonically, “Well noticed, Sherlock. I see we can’t slip much past you.”

“Um, I was expecting Arthur Carlin.” I might have been expecting Arthur, but this was definitely not a complaint. Blondie was a more than acceptable substitute. She had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. God, I could have stared into them all day.

“And you normally call him ‘handsome’? I bet he loves that.” The blonde was tentatively feeling her skull for bumps, but she seemed more bemused than angry.

“He’s an old family friend,” I explained, wondering why I wasn’t dropping to my knees and initiating some serious sexual shenanigans, the kind that are probably illegal in this state.

“Come on, give me a hand up at least,” the blonde interrupted, extending her oily hand upwards. Without thinking, I took it and pulled her into a standing position. I was so busy thinking how firm her grip was and what that hand would feel like gripping, say, the back of my head that I held onto her hand mutely until Blondie cleared her throat and gently extracated it. Jesus, I was so dazed that I even wiped my own hand on the leg of my two-hundred-dollar 7 for All Mankind jeans, leaving a huge oil streak down them that would never come out.

“I take it that Dad didn’t tell you that I’d be here today?” the other woman prompted, placing her hands on her neck and rotating it, obviously trying to work the kinks out of it. It was a simple action, but that neck was slender and it looked tempting. I mean, I couldn’t help but stare and wonder what it might be like to let my mouth slide from the curve of her shoulder up to her earlobe. She seemed like the type to make little noises. I like it when they make little noises: lets you know you’re going in the right direction.

Suddenly, what she’d just said made its way through my lust-filled mind and everything made sense. This goddess was Spencer, Arthur Carlin’s daughter. Well, let’s just say that little Spencer had definitely filled out in all the right places in the dozen or so years since I had last seen her because my existing mental image of Spencer was from that first summer at the mansion: all pigtails and dirty overalls, grease smearing her face, as she stared adoringly at her father and assisted him however she could. Their easy rapport and loving teasing of each other had made me jealous. Raife Davies remained almost a stranger to me, hardly even there during my court-ordered summer vacations at the family home. Hell, I knew the staff better than my own dad.

“Those for me?” Spencer’s question startled me as I watched her walk over to the tool table and snag a cookie. There was something about the lythe way that Spencer walked which made me long to feel those hips moving against my own. I can’t lie: I might have spent a few moments trying to picture that very thing.

“Hello? Earth to Ashley?”

“Uh, what?” I replied distractedly, mentally kicking myself for giving Spencer the impression that I was a brain-dead halfwit. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I got game and, yet, here I was, acting like some chess club nerd faced with the head cheerleader. I was being Xander, for God’s sake.

“I said I think I’ll be at least another five days, maybe six. Dad mentioned that you’ve got an appraiser coming to value the collection. When’s he getting here?”

“Saturday, but I can put him off if that suits you better.” I had originally wanted to get the first flight back to LA on Monday morning, but suddenly I found that I had nothing so important to get back to that could compete with the thought of Spencer Carlin.

“Well, I could be done by Tuesday or Wednesday, if I work flat out. Problem is that Dad was supposed to be helping me out, but he disappeared off on some urgent job this morning, telling me not to count on him being around much. And it looks like he didn’t really get a whole lot done yesterday, anyway,” she noted dryly.

I was only really half-listening to Spencer’s reply. Did I mention already she’s gorgeous, oil stains and all? I was just trying to figure out how I’d give her the first of many life-changing orgasms when I realised that there was an uncomfortable pause developing between us. I quickly asked the first question that occured to me, which turned out to be, “So, you work for your dad, huh?” I think we can all admit that that’s up there with ‘I was carrying a watermelon’.

Spencer nodded as she picked up a glass and took a drink. “Kinda,” she agreed. “More like his partner, really. He signed over half the business when I graduated trade school. These are really good, by the way,” she mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. Those lips looked so soft and full, I felt jealous of the cookie crumbs.

“Dad really never mentioned I was coming today?” she asked. I shook my head because Arthur hadn’t mentioned Spencer at all. “Figures.”

Hoping to extend my time with Spencer, I made what I thought was a most generous offer: “Do you want something else to eat? I can fix you something if you like.” She gave me such a doubting look that even I had to chuckle. With my best self-deprecating grin, I admitted, “Okay, I’ll get someone else to make you something.”

Spencer shook her head. “No, look, I’d better get back to work if this is gonna be done by next Tuesday. Otherwise, I’ll still be at this next month.” She brushed cookie crumbs from around her mouth and face.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” I purred, treating her to my most low-and-sexy tone. But Spencer just grunted as she pushed herself off the tool bench she’d been perching on.

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she replied mysteriously. She walked back over to the Porsche and sat down on the low trolley. “Thanks for the cookies, Ash,” she said. She sighed softly and gave me a look of kindness. “I was sorry to hear about your dad’s accident. He was a good man, good to my family. We all liked him a lot.”

Lying back, Spencer disappeared back under the classic car. I think I stood there like a complete tool for a few moments before walking back to the main house.

* * *

By the start of the following week, it was as if I could hardly remember my life back in LA. The laid-back pace of life in Jameson Parish was seductive. There was no need to hurry anything. People knew each other. They helped each other out. It seemed like everyone in town had something good to say about Dad and, as his daughter, they all made me feel welcomed as a member of their community. The staff down at Thibaud’s, the local general store, had already taken to calling me ‘Miz Ashley’, which made me feel like I should have a black nurse maid and be fanning myself on the front porch with a mint julep in my hand saying ‘Fiddle-de-dee’ a lot. I agreed with Spencer that the car appraiser should be put off for a full week, especially as Arthur seemed to be caught up in other jobs every day, leaving poor Spencer on her own. With the weekend fast approaching, it seemed too soon to be thinking of leaving.

There’s no denying that the best part of my day was having lunch with Spencer. It had started as a brief chat and now stretched to at least an hour a day. We would talk about Raife, the cars, Spencer’s family, this and that. It didn’t escape my notice that Spencer was unwilling to talk about herself and nicely side-stepped any enquiries about her life. Marriage to your high school sweetheart or college followed by a life in the city seemed to be the only two options for women around these parts and I admit that I was dying to know if Spencer had a former high school sports star – or cheerleader – waiting for her at home. She definitely wasn’t engaged or married because I’d made a point of checking both for rings and for tell-tale tan lines on her ring finger to show that she merely took them off for work. It didn’t appear that Spencer ever wore any rings so maybe she was living in sin. The mystery deepened.

When I walked out to the garage on the Thursday, Spencer was leaning against a work bench, cleaning her hands with a rag, an amused smile playing at the corner of her mouth. And, just like every other day, I felt my mouth go dry and my palms get sweaty. The thing is, I don’t think she even knew just how breath-taking she was. Obviously she has eyes, so she must have seen in the mirror that she was good-looking, but she wasn’t cocky or obvious with it, like… well, like me, basically. I had tried subtly flirting with her, or at least as subtly as I can manage, but she just seemed to ignore all my, frankly, well-practised overtures. Anyway, as I put the tray of sandwiches (made by my own fair hand), beignets (store-bought) and cold drinks down on the bench next to Spencer, my hands were even trembling slightly. I hated the way she made me feel, but I loved it as well.

“Met an old friend of yours last night,” Spencer drawled by way of introduction as she hopped up onto the bench. Her tone of amusement matched her smirk. “Told her I was working up here on your dad’s cars and damn if she didn’t flutter like a little bird.” Spencer looked at the floor and grinned to herself. “You remember Alanna Dickey, don’t you?” With a shrug, and without looking up, she added, “Course, she was Alanna Green when you knew her.”

It took me a few moments to recognise the name. In fact, it was Spencer’s manner, more than the name itself, that brought the facts back to me. Oh, I could definitely recall the teenage fumblings I’d shared with Alanna Green in the equipment room at Jameson Parish Country Club.

“I’ll bet she remembers me very fondly,” I retorted with bravado. No point hiding my light under a bushel. A few hours with me was like a lifetime in heaven, after all.

But Spencer snorted with laughter. “You’ve got a pretty good opinion of yourself.”

I brushed an imaginary piece of lint from my shoulder. “Maybe I’m just that good.” And how much would I like to show her just how good?

“Doubtful. I heard all these stories the first time around. With Alanna, I heard you used her and then dumped her. Course, some of the other girls had different stories, mostly that you dumped ’em cos they wouldn’t put out.”

My head shot up in surprise. Girls? I tried to remember just how many young women had experienced a little of the old Ashley Davies magic in the equipment room or my bedroom at the mansion. I stopped counting when I got into double digits. I’d have been hard pushed to remember a lot of their names. Let’s just say my consciousness was a lot more altered in those days. Funny, I would have bet good money that those country club girls would have kept it quiet that they’d cheated on their boyfriends with a girl, even if I had given them all the ride of their lives.

“Not sure why you’re looking so surprised,” Spencer continued. “I went to high school with these girls and this is a real small town. People talk.”

“And just what do those people say?” I asked, trying to maintain at least a facade of my usual cockiness. Spencer didn’t answer immediately, just grinning as she helped herself to a pastrami sandwich.

“These really are good sandwiches,” she commented, pulling the bread apart to examine the ingredients. “Cream cheese with pastrami? I would never have thought of putting the two together. I mean, cream cheese is for bagels. Surely, it should be Swiss or Provolone for sandwiches?”

I could tell from the smirk playing on Spencer’s lips that she was being deliberately obtuse just to annoy me. Despite myself, I could feel a smile forming at the corners of my own mouth. So Spencer was a little tease? Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be teased by Spencer Carlin from sundown to sun-up.

“You’re quite the little tease, aren’t you?” I challenged, as flirtatiously as I could.

Spencer smiled slyly. “Ease up there, Tiger. I’m not some fifteen-year-old cheerleader who’s going to walk on the wild side with you out back behind the stables.”

“Actually, it was in the equipment room,” I retorted, leaning forward to get a drink. I made damn sure that Spencer could get a good look down my top at the boys. I’d put on an extra-special bra just in case an appropriate moment arose. “They had all sorts of weight benches in there. Good for lying down on.” I gave a little smirk of my own. “Or, you know, bending someone over.” That comment forced Spencer to pause in lifting her sandwich to her mouth. Oh, yes, I was good. “And I know for a fact that innocent little Alanna Green definitely enjoyed herself,” I continued. “Either that, or she had some sort of religious experience, because she was screaming ‘Sweet Jesus’ loud enough to wake the dead.”

Spencer was not smirking anymore. In fact, I’d bet that I was getting to her because she was just a little too calm, a little too nonchalant, when she said, “Anyway, Alanna wanted me to mention that she was divorced now.”

With only a couple of days left till the cars were all done and my sexual preference now out in the open, I figured that there couldn’t be any harm in ramping up the flirting. “So, in other words, she does remember me fondly. Well, who could blame her?” I raised my hand in front of me and waggled my fingers, giving a little smile, as if in recollection of just what those fingers had done and where they’d been. “She never could get enough. They never can.”

Spencer nearly choked on her drink in response. “Jesus, you’re even more arrogant than I’d heard. And I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”

“It’s not arrogance if it’s all true, Spence.”

The other woman rolled her eyes. “I need to get back to work. I have to take the Jag out for a run. The engine needs opened up properly.”

Licking my fingers suggestively, I asked, “So, you know how to drive stick, then?” Oh, bite me. I know that one was a bit obvious, but time was ticking and I needed to get things moving.

“I’ve been working on these cars since I was a teenager. Of course I can drive them,” Spencer replied evenly, ignoring the obvious innuendo of my question.

“Can I ride with you?” Despite the choice of words, there was no innuendo behind my question. The E-type had always been one of my favourites and it was probably a good ten years since Dad had taken me out for a spin in her.

Spencer just shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

* * *

We were cruising along the old state highway, nothing around but fields, and hardly saying a word. It wasn’t one of those awkward silences, though. It was one of those silences when you both don’t feel the need to say anything. It was nice. Okay, it was better than just nice. It felt like… God, I needed to keep my head in the game, because I was starting to think romantic, decidedly non-sexual thoughts about how good it felt to be able to relax with her and how she’d make the perfect girlfriend.

Spencer had been right: there was a definite whine off the engine, a hint that something wasn’t quite right. She was driving steadily, the window open, her head leaning out a little, just listening. Suddenly, she pulled over and got out of the car, taking a rag from her pocket. Opening the hood, she sighed and then bent over the engine. I got out myself and joined her, sticking my hands in the back pockets of my jeans so that I didn’t give into the urge to lean forward and touch her. So, rather than give into my urges, I let my eyes wander over strong but slender arms, a gracefully arched back and a very, very fine ass. I’d give just about anything to see Spencer out of her overalls at least once because I was willing to bet that a pair of killer legs were hidden under the dirty khaki work clothes.

“Enjoying the view?” Spencer asked with sardonic amusement.

I didn’t even have to think before replying, “It’s a mighty fine view.”

The blonde shrugged. “If you say so.”

I thought about it for a few moments before finally asking, “So, who normally gets to appreciate it?”

“I don’t date, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Ever?” I asked incredulously. It was inconceivable to me that the entire population of Jameson Parish could all be blind and stupid.

“I don’t like people knowing my business and this is, as you’ve noticed, a very small town.”

I almost don’t remember taking my hand out of my pocket and stepping closer. The next thing I knew, I was placing my hand against her hip. “Well, it’s secluded out here,” I said. My voice was almost a whisper. She didn’t say anything in reply; she just looked over her shoulder and raised her eyebrow. Chastened, I stepped back.

That was the first time we had an awkward silence. I just stood there, not sure what to do while she went back to doing something to the car. The tension got so much that I walked over to a large tree about forty yards away and leant against it, facing away from her and staring out over the landscape. I was so busy kicking myself hard that I didn’t even hear her approach. But, the next thing I knew, she had pulled me around by the shoulder and pressed my back against the tree. I opened my mouth to speak, but then I saw the look on her face and decided against it.

I just stood there while she placed her hands on either side of my head. Given the fierce look on her face, I had expected her to either shout at me or kiss me hard, but she did neither of those things. She just leaned in slowly – oh, Jesus, it felt like it took her whole minutes – and whispered in my ear, “Stop trying so hard, Ash, and it might just happen.” The feel of her breath against my ear and her body pressed up against me in all sorts of delicious ways was making my knees weak as hell. I was actually so tense that I was shaking.

And then she did the most indescribably erotic thing I had ever known. She pulled back to face me and smiled – the sort of smile that makes you forget that the rest of the world actually exists – and then just leaned in until her lips were nearly touching mine. I could feel her breath coming in short bursts and I couldn’t stop my eyes from shutting, anticipating the sensation of the kiss. But she didn’t kiss me. She dropped one hand from next to my head and ran it down my side, causing my skin to prickle everywhere she touched me. She eventually covered my hand with her own and dragged our linked hands back up, this time trailing a path up her side. I felt my fingertips brush against the slope of her breast and I actually moaned, God help me. She leaned back slightly and brought my hand to her mouth, lightly brushing her lips across my knuckles.

“Now, get back in the car and quit sulking,” she whispered, stepping back and walking away from me. If the tree hadn’t been behind me, I would have fallen to the ground in a puddle of lust. I am not shy about admitting that I am good in bed, but this girl had me close to losing my shit and she’d hardly touched me at all. That just wasn’t fair.

* * *

I didn’t know what to say to her in the car on the way back, so I just sat there, thinking. I liked to be the one in control in these situations. Okay, I admit it: I like to be in control in all situations, since I gave up the drink and the other recreational enhancements. Control’s a big thing for me. And I quite obviously was not in control of this situation. Spencer, meanwhile, was just driving along, one arm out of the window, a satisfied little smirk on her face. If anyone was wearing the pants around here, it was her. Man, I’d like to get in those pants. I was aching with want for her and I think we both knew it. Eventually, I did something completely out of character for me: I asked a girl out on a date.

“So, um, would you go on a date with me, then?”

She downshifted to third as we approached a corner and let her hand brush against my thigh, the little minx. “You’re still going home on Monday,” she commented. “Doesn’t seem like there would be much future in that, does there?”

My first thought was to ask her for a farewell fuck instead, but thankfully I didn’t say that out loud. In fact, I just said, “Oh.” Having tried and failed with the best plan I’d managed to come up with in twenty minutes, I just went back to silently sneaking looks at her. I’d known this girl exactly a week, hadn’t even kissed her, never mind seen her naked, and already I was contemplating ways that I could bend my entire life to suit her. I was fucked.

“I could stay a little longer,” I offered, finally.

Again, there was that little smirk, but she didn’t take her eyes off the road. “You could, huh?”

I shrugged. “It’s not like I have a job to get back to.”

Spencer was incredulous. “You don’t have a job?” She said it like that was the worst evil she could imagine.

“I’m, uh, a songwriter. I don’t work the clock.”

“Oh, I see. So, you do actually have a job, then?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I wouldn’t even consider dating someone who was a member of the idle classes, rich or poor.”

My grin threatened to split my face in two. So, she was at least considering it. Finally, I was getting somewhere. “So, you would date a girl?” I asked, just making sure that we were on the same page here.

She laughed, a beautiful sound that made me want to write a whole album of songs just for her. “Ash, I don’t ‘drive stick’, as you so beautifully put it.” I don’t know where she’d got the little nickname from but, I can tell you, my name sounded like music coming from her mouth. That got me thinking how good it would sound being screamed as she came hard for me and I had to bite my lip to suppress a little moan at the thought of naked Spencer Carlin writhing underneath me or, you know, on top of me. I’m up for any position that makes a girl happy.

“What makes you think I’d want to date you, anyway?” she asked, as we pulled into the gates of the mansion and headed up the gravel drive.

“What?!” Hold on a second. Houston, I think we definitely have a problem here. Were we not discussing the very concept of her going on a date with me?

She parked in front of the garage and got out of her side of the car. I, meanwhile, was still sitting in the passenger seat, unable to move or do anything. I heard the door open and felt her take my hand. I let her pull me out of the car. Then she slipped her hand to my waist and my mind stopped racing because no rational thought was possible.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “I just want to use you for sex?” She grinned and walked away from me, wiping her hands on the ever-present rag that she’d pulled from her waistband, and whistling a little tune to herself. It was a piece of Mozart, if my knowledge of classical adagios wasn’t letting me down. I watched that fine ass moving away from me, those incredible hips swaying just a little and I grinned wider than I ever thought possible.

Hot fucking damn.

* * *

I can tell you that Friday was the most disappointing morning of my life ever. I woke up, bright and early, ready to continue my seduction of Spencer Carlin – or possibly her seduction of me, I wasn’t entirely sure how this would work – and bounded down the stairs. I am not the ‘bounding down the stairs’ type, let me tell you. I slink, I slope, I saunter and occasionally I vamp, but I am not one of life’s bouncy, chipper people.

Like some sad, pussy-whipped fool, I was actually watching from the window for the tow truck arriving. I watched it pull up the drive, my little heart racing like a mad fool, and then I saw Arthur get out of the truck. Arthur? Arthur?! That was so not what I was expecting. I immediately raced through the house and out of the kitchen door, only slamming the brakes on when I got to the garage, so that I could saunter in nonchalantly.

“Hey, Arthur,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Spence around?”

He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling and his dimples flashing, characteristics he had passed to his daughter. “She said to tell you she had some unavoidable business in the city today, but she’d be by tomorrow to help you with the appraiser.” He opened a flask he’d brought with him and poured himself a coffee. “You two girls getting along, then?” he asked.

There was something about his deliberately light tone and the fact that he was obviously suppressing a grin that made me suspect that Arthur Carlin knew something. Surely Spencer wouldn’t have told him about our little conversation yesterday? I knew those two were close, but that hardly seemed like something you’d tell your father. And then I had a blinding flash of inspiration about why Arthur Carlin had found himself unavailable to show up every day. That old rogue had been match-making! Go, Arthur!

“Yeah, we’re getting along okay,” I allowed, returning his grin and giving him a wink to test my theory.

“I thought as much. Spencer can’t stop talking about you.” He returned my wink. Theory proven, I rest my case, your Honour.

“Really?” I replied, not even trying to hide my delight.

Putting his coffee down on the bench, he turned and placed a kindly hand on my shoulder. “You know, you always did sell yourself short, even as a kid. You’ve got a good heart, Ashley, just like your Dad.” Well, I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my time, but having a good heart has never been one of them. “He was so proud of you,” Arthur continued. “I’m proud of you, too. You’ve turned into a lovely young woman, despite your mother,” he commented.

Despite myself, I could actually feel tears forming behind my eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, squeezing my shoulder. “My daughter’s a lovely young woman, too,” he added.

I chuckled at his obviousness. “I had noticed that, Arthur.”

“I thought you might.” We grinned at each other. It was just a good moment, the kind I wished I could have had with my own father. He walked over to the Benz and uncapped a bottle of polish. “She tells me you might be thinking of staying a while longer.”

“I’m definitely considering it.”

He shrugged. “You could certainly do a lot worse than spending some more time here. For a small town, we have a lot to offer. Besides, there’s always been a Davies in town, as long as anyone can remember.”

“We’ll see.”

He smirked, another trait he’d clearly passed onto his daughter. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

* * * * *

Next up: Homecoming, Part II [X]