Smoke nodded to Mr. Confer, a tall man in his forties with a kind face and a salt and pepper beard I’d seen coaching the pee wee football team in the park every Saturday morning, but kept his attention on the street and the cars and small crowd that congregated near the bakery and coffee shop. “It makes sense. You’re around. The kid, he’s around a lot…”
“We…don’t have to be.”
Smoke slowed his steps but didn’t stop, moving just behind me like he thought about turning around but changed his mind. “No,” he said, catching up and shooting a look at me I couldn’t read. “You don’t.” Then, he stretched his neck, a habit I’d noticed he had anytime he was irritated or tired. “But, I’m used to the kid yanking on my chain and I’m used to you yanking on my—”
I jabbed him in the ribs before he could finish, laughing until my throat ached as we moved down the sidewalk. “You’re annoying.”
“A little,” he admitted, “but I serve a purpose.” When Smoke looked at me the way he did just then, my head went a little fuzzy and I forgot about those rules we’d established when this all started. For a second, I let myself forget about all the impossibilities.
“Si,” I said, staring at his mouth, then quickly glancing at his eyes, blinking when he curled an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “But…” I put a few steps between us, reminding myself that wasn’t what I needed from him today. “On today’s agenda is an oil change lesson.”
“Fine, bella…” He grabbed me again, moving his mouth to my ear, making his voice deep, teasing. “Then let’s get dirty…”
“Did I get it all?” I didn’t trust his grin. Or that smirk. Or the way Smoke kept nodding. It was too quick. Like he was full of shit and wanted me to believe he wasn’t. “Where’s the damn mirror?”
“You can’t be worried about what you look like in the middle of an oil change, bella.”
“I’m not, Mr. Carelli.” He laughed—he’d been doing an annoying lot of that shit— clearly amused by me exaggerating his last name. “I’m worried that I still have oil all over my face because someone didn’t tell me about how much oil would still be in the pan when I released the drain plug.” The thick scent of the oil coiled into the back of my throat, not helping to ease the soreness I felt there.
“I did warn you.”
“Liar…”
“In fact,” he slid the pan out of the way, stretching an arm toward me to wipe the crumbled paper towel across my forehead, “I think I said, ‘head’s up,’ just before you pulled the plug out.”
That smile was lethal, and it was the only thing saving him from a full throttling as we hunched under my Outback. “Yelling ‘head’s up’ isn’t exactly giving me all the instruction I need to do this right.”
Smoke whistled, holding up his hands like he was ready to give up. “I went over the instructions before we got your Subaru off the ground. Step by step.”
“Pfftt. You’re full of shit. ‘Jack up the car.’” I held up one filthy, oil-drenched finger before lifting a second. “Slide a container to catch oil underneath and locate the drain plug.” And a third. “Unscrew. Watch for the oil as it comes out. At no time did you say, ‘watch out for the damn geyser that will spew from the pan and oh, by the way, it’s gonna soak your head and face and hands, Maggie’—it’s not funny!”
The asshole rolled onto his back, laughing so loud his face had gone red and he wiped at his eyes. “Shit, bella, it is funny.”
He turned on his side, still grinning like an idiot when I replaced the brush gasket, the laughter subsiding only slightly as I refastened the bolt with the wrench.
“I…honestly didn’t think you were serious about all this,” he admitted, looking up at me from the ground as I turned, frowning down at him.
“Why wouldn’t I be serious about this?”
“A story my folks told me…about when they met.” Smoke softened his features, his expression easy, traces of his laughter still in the lightness of his eyes and the small grin on his face.
“How did they meet?”
He hesitated, just watching me, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to bring up something so personal. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, and though the Carelli’s were friendly, kind people, they were private. But Smoke only hesitated a second longer before he scooted closer, ignoring the small protest I made before he took the wrench from me and finished fastening the bolt as though he needed something to do to distract himself.
“Pop worked at this garage back on Staten Island. He’d been there since high school, trying like hell not to be like his—” he stopped, not looking at me before he corrected himself— “trying to make his way different from his family’s.” Mr. Carelli hadn’t been part of his father and brother’s business, the illegal business, and I’d heard rumors it had been a struggle for Smoke’s parents because of it. They’d worked hard for every dime they had.
“So, he worked long hours and did all the jobs nobody wanted. Dealt with the housewives who didn’t want their men knowing they’d busted up their cars or the families that couldn’t afford to pay up front. He got a reputation for doing good work and for being a good man.”
“I’m not surprised,” I told him, smiling at the slow shake of Smoke’s head.
“So that kind of reputation, that kind of man, being the good-looking sort like most Carelli men are…” Smoke turned to me, shooting me a wink that pulled a laugh from me, before he continued, “you can imagine there were a lot of women coming by trying to get his attention.”
“Or cheap labor.”
“Yeah, that too.” Smoke nodded to the oil pan, then slid out from underneath the car, leaning down to help me up. He handed over a few more paper towels and we both continued to clean away the oil residue before he lowered the hydraulic and brought my Subaru back to the ground. Then, he lifted the hood and pointed to the bright blue oil filter marked with the word “Engine” along the center.
I reached for it, unfastening the cylinder filter like he’d instructed me before we started and grabbed a can of fresh motor oil to lubricate the new filter, rubbing the oil around the opening as Smoke watched me, nodding when I replaced it.
“So, you’re dad…”
“So, Pop kept getting this one girl coming in, cute little thing he said, big mouth, pretty face, bossy as hell. Every week for over a month. One week it was the tires. One was flat. He fixed the flat tire. Next week, another one was balled. He replaced that one.”
“She had excuses?” I asked, grabbing the yellow oil cap and removing it.
Smoke leaned against the car, nodding, handing over a well-used funnel to slip it inside. “She was relentless but full of attitude, telling him every week his work was ‘okay’ and that she thought his prices could be better and when the tires were all new and perfect, she started having problems with her transmission, then something funky with the engine.”
I poured the motor oil into the funnel, grinning at the smirk on Smoke’s face, already guessing who the woman had been. From the sound of her, Mrs. Carelli hadn’t changed much. “He didn’t figure it out?”