Maybe there weren’t any performances, but what I experienced was far from monotony. I oftentimes felt like one of the cars to be admired as Nico’s attention found me, burning my skin with a distinct gaze that brought one thing to mind. I wondered if he was as attentive with all his women, and then immediately hated myself for thinking it.
“Stay by my side,” he’d told me as soon as we got there.
A tenacious part of me wanted to know what he would do if I didn’t.
I always was a bit too curious.
As he was busy saying a few words to one of the cars’ owners, I slipped away and pretended to be admiring a convertible. It was only thirty seconds later that a large, intimidating presence brushed my back.
His voice was gravel, silk, and annoyed against my ear. “Do you honestly think I’m going to follow you around all day?”
I nodded, my heart fluttering like wings. “You have to.”
He didn’t touch me anywhere, though he stood so close the deep timbre of his words touched my neck. “I don’t have to do anything.”
The light summer breeze played on my skin as people walked around us, but I was only aware of one of them, one man.
You look nice.
Mine.
“Maybe you want to,” I breathed.
Two heartbeats passed. Three.
He could have said he didn’t. He could have said anything to deny it, but instead, he chose to let a silence full of unspoken words spread between us.
This tie we shared used to be equal parts thrill and terror. Today, the former was nudging the other away until it was as forgotten as a faded photograph tucked in the bottom of a drawer.
As I often pushed my luck and stepped away from him, growing tired of his car talk with the few people he chose to speak to, I felt his gaze follow my every move, even while he was immersed in conversation. And I realized one thing: I might not be the only woman in his life, but I would be the only one he called wife. The revelation was a vigorous thrum in my chest. So consuming a hum I couldn’t force myself to feel anything but a deep-seated contentment.
“Nicolas,” I said a few moments later, covering my eyes from the sun as I glanced across the lot. “It’s just like your Gran Torino.”
Nico stopped by my side but was busy sending a text. I’d yet to see this man drunk when I’d assumed he was an alcoholic. However, I was always seeing him work. I was beginning to think workaholic was a more likely diagnosis.
“How do you know what model my car is?” he asked without looking up.
“I have a superior knowledge in all things cars.” I smiled, because I didn’t even know how to freakin’ drive.
He glanced at me, amusement ghosting across whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sure you do.” Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he looked across the lot. “That’s a ‘70. Mine’s a ‘72.”
I paused. That was awfully perceptive of him, having been too far away to read the paper in the windshield. “How do you know?”
“Wild guess,” he drawled.
Hmm . . .
“What year is that red one?” I pointed to the next Gran Torino in line.
He gave the car a glance. “‘71.” And then a smile pulled on a corner of his lips. “It was the movie, wasn’t it? How you know?”
I frowned.
That was the fourth time I heard him laugh. I didn’t know when I’d started counting, but now I wondered if I would ever stop.
I soon learned it wasn’t a “wild guess” as he’d said. In fact, with some more questioning, I realized he could tell me the make, model, and year of all these cars here with a simple look. He was like a car encyclopedia, though humble enough not to admit it.
I watched him, was fascinated in a way by the few words that he spoke, and I took a mental image when he glanced my way and the sunlight hit him just right. Pierced with that dark, acquisitive gaze of his, something warm started in my chest, and as the day went on it spread further through my being until it was so interwoven I’d never get it out.
“How do you know so much about cars?” I asked him as we walked side-by-side. The sun was a sweltering weight against my skin, and I pulled my ponytail off the back of my sticky neck.
“Kept me out of trouble,” was all he said.
I imagined he meant when he was a teenager. What kind of trouble did a young Nico get into?
Guilt felt heavy in my chest when I recalled what I’d insinuated about his mamma last night. My parents were far from the best, but I’d been safe, loved, and cared for as a child. I wondered who’d loved Nico. I bet his papà had shown him about as much affection as mine did Tony, which was worrisome. And I doubted an addict for a mamma could be very caring and supportive.