Then back at him.
“That’s it?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I fixed the obvious fault.”
“If something else is wrong, I don’t have enough equipment to prove it.”
She shut the engine down.
“How much?”
“Nothing.”
The answer seemed to irritate her.
“I’m not asking for charity.”
“Good.”
“Then tell me what I owe you.”
“You don’t.”
She opened a small leather wallet.
Pulled out cash.
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Two hundred.”
“No.”
“Three.”
He laughed.
“For tightening a ground connection?”
“For stopping.”
The Single Dad stood.
“That part isn’t billable.”
The Woman stared.
“Everything is billable.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Her expression changed.
He wiped grease across an old shop rag.
“I’ve got a daughter.”
He nodded toward the pickup.
“If she’s ever sitting on the side of a road alone, I’d want somebody to stop before calculating the invoice.”
The Woman slowly put the money away.
He expected arrogance.
Instead he saw something closer to discomfort.
“That philosophy must be expensive.”
“It is.”
She laughed softly.
He handed her the side-panel screw he had replaced.
“Keep an eye on the electrical warning.”
“If it comes back, don’t keep riding.”
She looked at his hands.
Grease beneath his fingernails.
Scar across one knuckle.
Calluses.
“Your daughter’s mother?”
He became still.
The Woman immediately understood.
“I’m sorry.”
“Three years.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
Her expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He closed the toolbox.
The Woman stepped down from the bike.
This time she came closer.
Very close.
Her perfume mixed strangely with hot metal and desert dust.
The Single Dad looked at her.
She reached for his wrist.
He let her.
Her fingers wrapped lightly around the grease-stained skin.
“You always refuse money from women who owe you?”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That answer feels rehearsed.”
“It’s not.”
Her thumb moved once across the back of his hand.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He felt it more than he wanted to.
The Woman noticed his breathing change.
Her eyes dropped briefly toward his mouth.
Then returned.
“What do you want?”
He smiled faintly.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“To get my daughter home before she tells another stranger my entire life story.”
The Woman laughed.
From the truck, his daughter pressed both hands against the glass.
The Single Dad looked over.
Then back.
The Woman had not released his wrist.
“You’re difficult.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Dinner.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“I buy you dinner.”
“That sounds suspiciously like payment.”