Pickleballers

Chapter Three

Three

With the polite social awareness of a long-trained northwesterner, Meg waited until the last second before turning over her engine in the ferry’s hold. The hatchback purred to a start, and she rolled forward, following the line of cars. But before she had moved half a car’s length, the toot of a horn grabbed her attention. Honking on the ferry! Party foul.

Meg glanced, irritated, at the honker. The pickup truck in the line beside her had not rolled forward with the rest of the cars.

“Hold up!” the driver shouted, jumping from his truck. He raced to Meg’s window and gave a gentle knock with his knuckle. “Would you mind? My battery’s dead.”

Rolling down her window, his head came into view and every vestige of annoyance vanished when she spotted the casually tousled hair crowning the face of her clam chowder dreamboat.

“My truck’s dead,” Ethan Fine repeated. “Oh. Hi!” His smile opened at the sight of her. “It’s you! That’s lucky. Listen. I’ve got cables. Could you…?”

“Jump you?” she offered, her voice pitched way too high. “I could jump you.” Holy crud. Did she actually just say that out loud? “I mean. I can jump your car.” The tips of Meg’s ears burned as his lips tugged upward.

“Ah,” he said. “That would be great.” He smiled with his mouth open enough for her to see him run the tip of his tongue beneath his teeth. It was as if he had yelled Sex! at the top of his lungs. Her brain paused for a commercial break as it replayed a frame out of her ferry booth fantasy. What was going on with her?

Recovering from her steamy time out, she hurried to connect the cables. The two of them worked quickly, rushing to beat the clock before the ferry loaded again for Bainbridge. Revving the engine, she nodded for him to turn his key. With a vroom, his truck roared to life, and he leaned out to give her a thumbs-up. Instead of feeling relief, Meg tamped down the twinge in her chest. The truck had started, true. But that small success meant Clam Chowder would be driving out of her life forever.

Leaping from his truck, Ethan disconnected the cables. “Meg…Listen. I really appreciate the jump. Could I, say, take you out for a drink or a bite to eat? To thank you.”

Selling off the last of the cat collars and a spontaneous date with a cute guy? Maybe she ought to pat herself down to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Annie wouldn’t mind if they pushed their game a little later. Well, she would. But it would be worth it.

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They lingered over lemonade and duck fat fries at Damn the Weather, a trendy-casual gastropub just a few blocks over from the ferry terminal, and all the while Meg imagined smothering him in the ketchup and licking it off. Who was this Meg Bloomberg? Until an hour ago, this guy had been a stranger. Pretty much was still a stranger. Meg prided herself on treading carefully when it came to risk factors. In social situations, proceeding with caution and developing trust were her modi operandi. But now that Ethan Fine was gazing at her while overdousing his fries in malt vinegar, could she allow herself to go with the flow and permit herself this fantasy of wanting and feeling wanted? In the months since Vance’s departure, her ex had been stepping out all over social media with his dates du jour. Why not permit herself to sit here and dream a little?

Afterward, standing on the sidewalk, he fished for his keys. “Let me make sure I can get my truck started again.” She smiled, still dazed with duck fat and desire. “And I’d love to get your number.”

The ignition clicked, and then nothing. He tried again. Nothing.

“Dang,” he said. “I guess I should have driven around on the highway for a while to recharge it before stopping so soon. I don’t think it’s got enough juice.” He gave the ignition another fruitless try. “Nope. Nothing.” Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he said, “Yeah. This keeps happening. It’s a hybrid, but even those batteries don’t last forever.”

“Want me to try the cables again?”

“Nah. It’s Sunday. I’m gonna leave it here and get a new battery in the morning. I live on Bainbridge, but when I work in Seattle, I stay pretty close to here. Right in Queen Anne.”

“Can I give you a ride?”

“Are you sure?” He looked at her with those hopeful eyes. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No problem,” she said. Be cool. Be cool, Meg . “It’s really close. And I have nothing to do today,” she lied. Yanking her phone from her back pocket, she shot Annie a quick text. Canceling. Sorry. Met a hottie. More soon. It was seconds before the reply came back. WHAT?!! TELL ME NOW.

Meg enabled Do Not Disturb and tossed her phone into the hatchback. She brushed the baguette crumbs off the passenger seat and plucked three apple cores off the floorboard before tossing them into the back. Really, she could start a compost back there. “Sorry it’s a mess. And that seat belt kind of sticks.”

Grinning, he folded himself into her passenger seat. “I really appreciate this.”

She plugged in his address and tried not to be obvious about sneaking glances at him during the quiet car ride. As they pulled up to a quaint cottage on a leafy side street, Meg tilted her head out the window. “Cute place.”

“Bed-and-breakfast. Gotta love breakfast.” He reached for his seat belt. “Thanks so much for the lift.” He tugged at the buckle. “This thing is really stuck,” he said, yanking at the shoulder strap.

“Let me help you.” Meg jiggled the buckle. “Dang it. Sorry about that. Hold on. It gets jammed.”

And with that, she hopped out of the car and swung open the passenger door. She reached across him with both arms, tugging. “Nope. Dang. It’s never gotten this stuck before.” She put her body into it, wiggling with each pull, but the angle was all wrong. “Maybe if I…”

Without a second thought, she vaulted into the car and straddled him. “Damn thing won’t move.” Her legs clamped on to him for leverage as she pulled and tugged, her thighs bouncing on his hips.

“Whoa.”

Meg glanced up. Oh god. What was she doing? His mouth hung open in astonishment, his eyebrows frozen in cartoon arches. In for a penny, in for a pound, she figured. She went back to yanking at the obstinate buckle.

“As much as I am enjoying this,” he whispered, “I don’t think it’s working.”

“No. You’re right. I need to—” She twisted her torso and snapped open the glove compartment. When she swung back around, she had flipped open the pocketknife and wielded it toward his waist.

“What?! No!” he cried. “No. No. No. No!” He pressed his back into the seat, his expression morphing into panic. “Take whatever you want. My wallet’s in my back pocket. Just don’t—”

Suddenly aware that she was holding a sharp blade and waving it near a man’s crotch, Meg reared back. “Oh. No!” She lifted both hands in surrender, holding the knife aloft. “I was just going to try to cut off the seat belt. To get you out.”

“Oh.” He relaxed minutely. “Oh god. Thank god.” The blood began to drain back to his cheeks. “Put the knife away. Please.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” she said, tossing it back into the glove compartment. “That’s for apples,” she added pointlessly. “That was a bad idea. I’m sure I can—” She went back to the process of tugging and bouncing, bouncing and tugging. Despite their joint jiggling, the buckle held tight. “It’s persnickety.”

“Persnickety?” he asked, a disbelieving lilt in his tone.

Maybe this was the new Meg Bloomberg. Bouncing on a strange man’s lap, wielding a knife, and talking like a crustacean in a Disney movie. When she clocked his worried expression, she burst into giggles. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m…” She yanked again. Hard. “Whoopsie!” Her hand slipped off the buckle and into the dash. “Ow.” She pouted. “That hurt.”

Catching his eye, she couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “Oh my god. What am I doing?”

His stunned expression made her laugh harder, and at last, he broke, too, exploding with hilarity.

And suddenly, they were both rolling. In swelling and falling waves, they howled together. They would cool down for a moment, but each time their eyes met, they roared again. The momentum propelled them until they were laughing so hard they convulsed with the giggles. Her stomach hurt. His eyes streamed. It felt cathartic to crumble onto him, heaving with the unstoppable fits of laughter.

They wound down like slowing clocks, and she lay there, panting against his chest. “Sorry about this,” she mumbled into his shirt. Then they were silent, her face resting on his chest. Meg felt his heartbeat against her cheek and realized her own pulse was racing.

Tentatively, his hand reached up the nape of her neck, his fingers curling along her scalp. “I don’t mind it so much.” His voice rumbled against her ear.

“Me, neither,” she whispered, and lifted her face to his. When he gripped her waist and pulled her tight against him, there was no hesitancy to his touch.

And before her brain connected with what her hands were doing, she was snaking her fingers below his T-shirt, up his smooth skin to his marble chest, pressing against him with the kind of unthinking need she hadn’t felt in years. When he reached down to the side of the chair and released the seat latch, they dropped back together, and she thrilled at her own, unexpected desire. The illicit naughtiness of it. How un-Meg could she get? A stranger! Tied up! In her car!

Then his hands were in her hair, desperate and greedy. When he moaned into her mouth she succumbed to the exquisite sensations, the sound of his unrestrained hunger melting her to putty.

And then…

Then there was no more room for talking.