Scissor Link by Georgette Kaplan (novels to improve english .txt) 📗

at night, but in the four years since I saved their number to my phone, they have gone out of business. I can’t find another towing service that works at night, so it seems I’ll just have to call a taxi, leave my vehicle unattended all night long, and negotiate its rescue tomorrow morning, amidst all the other things I must attend to!” Janet followed all that with a deep breath, as if further frustrated by how she’d vented. She flashed Wendy a look that seemed both unintended and apologetic.

“I could wait with you, if you wanted. I mean, if you’re worried about leaving your car here.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.” Janet’s lips pinched together slightly. Another bead of sweat touched the little bow of her lips, and she automatically licked it away.

Wendy felt as if she’d suddenly developed telescopic eyes just to see that.

“But if that’s what you want?”

“It is,” Wendy said. Sliding her backpack off and onto the ground, she regarded the car. Gave the flat tire a kick, just because how often did you literally get to kick a tire? She felt a slick of sweat between her shoulder blades, drawn by the lack of air conditioning. “Have you tried changing it?”

Janet scoffed, and again it seemed directly more inward than outward, as if she were more frustrated with herself than anything else. “Even if I knew how, this is a six thousand dollar ensemble and half my assets just ran off with a yoga instructor. I literally can’t afford to replace it.”

“Well, lucky for you, I dress like a hobo,” Wendy said, beaming a grin at her. “Pop the trunk.” Don’t smile! her inner Snape screamed. That wasn’t charming!

An eyebrow raised, Janet reached into her pocket and clicked a button on her key fob, resulting in her maimed car beeping and opening up its trunk. Trust Janet Lace to have everything she needed to change a tire, and in pristine condition. Hell, even as she tossed her jacket into the ample trunk space, it looked like Janet had enough to survive traveling back in time. A first-aid kit, road flares—was that a flare gun?

Don’t snoop, Cedar, she told herself, selecting the jack and a lug wrench that looked large enough to teach a Roman centurion a thing or two. “Hold this,” she said, handing the wrench to Janet, whose eyebrows oozed shock from halfway to her hairline. Oh yeah, and tell her what to do, she’ll love that. She laid the jack on the ground by the tire and went to get the spare tire next.

But first, Wendy shrugged off her jacket. It’d been casual Friday at Savin Aerospace, and she’d dressed like it, wearing a fleece jacket zipped up over a black tank top. It was really only after she felt the air on her breasts that Wendy realized how low-cut the tank was. And her jeans weren’t exactly baggy. Hell, you could see her belly button. And now she thinks I’m a hooker. Great.

Janet offered her hand, taking the jacket from Wendy, and with her sleeves metaphorically rolled up, Wendy got the tire. She lugged it out of the trunk with a grunt of effort—oh so feminine—and rolled it to a stop beside the jacket. Then she wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, realizing she’d started to sweat. Now let’s see if there’s some mud we can roll around in to really complete the look, shall we?

Wendy took the wrench from Janet, who immediately crossed her arms over her chest in abject disapproval. Yeah, I know, I know. She removed the cover from the wheel rim, then loosened the lug nuts in a star motion. She left the wrench by the cover on the ground as she inserted the jack.

“So I heard about your divorce,” Wendy said, her voice strained as she pumped the lever with all her might, raising the car in smooth degrees.

“Oh?” Janet asked, her arms tightened around herself.

“Yeah. I was real sorry to hear about that.”

“Really?” Janet asked, sounding even more Janet. “You’re sorry to hear that I’m single? You’d prefer I be in a loveless marriage?”

Wendy took her wrench to the lugs again, grunting as she twisted them off one by one, feeling about as ladylike as Stone Cold Steve Austin. “I’m sorry—” she strained, working on a particularly stubborn one. “That you’re going through a—” Wendy was interrupted by a noise deep in her chest as the lug nut gave. “Tough time.” She set the lug nut down on the parking garage’s concrete with a clink and started on the next one.

“I appreciate that,” Janet said formally.

Move on, move on, abandon conversation! “So, how ‘bout dem Yankees?” Wendy asked as she began prying the flat tire out, her biceps swelling in a way that would look great on Instagram, not so great when her crush could actually smell her.

“I don’t watch baseball. I prefer hockey.”

“What? Shut up, me too!”

“So why do you want me to shut up?”

Wendy paused as she reached for the spare. “It’s a…it’s a figure of…”

“I know, Wendy. I’m just playing with you. I’m not that old.”

Tell me about it. Janet looked like at some point in her thirties, she’d told the aging process ‘let’s not have any of that.’

Wendy shoved the new tire into place, now feeling her tank top clinging to her, waterlogged with sweat. Shouldn’t have taken the jacket off. She twisted the lug nuts back into place with her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Janet raise the jacket to her nostrils. Definitely shouldn’t have taken the jacket off. Shit, did I wear deodorant today? Perfume? Scented shampoo? Spill some tea on me that smelled nice?

Wendy stood, swiping her hands on her jeans, leaving most attractive swaths of damp sweat and grease on them. Her hair was probably a mess too. Dark with sweat, completely disheveled—some of it was already hanging in her eyes. She took her jacket back from Janet, throwing