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She’s just finished reading the world news section of the newspaper when Michael materializes at her side, car keys dangling jauntily from his long fingers. “Let’s do it.”
Sara looks at the car keys, then up at his face. He looks like a child who’s just been told that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are all real. “Are you sure?” she asks, grinning. She’s heard this invitation twice before, only to have it politely retracted at the last moment when he’d had second thoughts.
He shifts his weight, literally bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yep.”
She leans back in her chair, eyeing him with amusement. “It’s actually ready?”
He grins, flipping the keys into his palm and out again. “It’s actually ready.”
Pushing back her chair, she briefly considers her wardrobe selection of jeans and t-shirt, then decides she’s perfectly dressed for the occasion. She rises to her feet, then waves him towards the front door. “Well, then,” she says, barely resisting the urge to lean over and kiss his smiling mouth, “you’d better lead the way.”
The Rambler is a work of art, she decides. There’s no other way to describe it. It sits gleaming in the carport as they walk towards it, as if waiting for them, waiting for the first drive of its new lease on life. Just as it had on her first day in Punta Chame, the fact Michael has so carefully nurtured this battered souvenir of their journey to freedom is something makes her feel utterly cherished and grounded in a way she never thought possible.
It’s just after ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, and she and Michael have the rare luxury of a whole day of nothing ahead of them. No work, no chores, no plans to meet Lincoln or LJ at the shop. Perhaps she should have expected today would be the day Michael decided it was finally time to take the Rambler out for a spin. Then again, she thinks with a private smile, she likes it when he surprises her.
As they reach the carport, Michael cups his hand under her elbow, drawing her gently towards him. She instinctively leans into him as she tilts back her head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes sparkling with anticipation, he holds out the car keys. “Would you like to drive?”
She looks at him, remembering all the times this particular set of keys had passed from his hands to hers and back again during their frantic flight from the Company. Her throat tightens, and this time she doesn’t resist the urge to kiss him, his mouth soft and warm against hers. “Thanks for the offer,” she murmurs as she reluctantly pulls away, “but I’ll take the wheel next time.”
“Okay.” His hand flexes on her arm, his thumb gently brushing the tender skin inside the curve of her elbow, his gaze lingering on her mouth before lifting to meet her eyes. “Are you ready?”
She smiles. “Let’s go.”
He insists on opening the passenger door for her, making her shake her head and grin like an infatuated teenaged girl at the same time. They both take a moment to admire the newly upholstered leather seats, then dart a glance at each other. Her face heating up at the memory glittering in his eyes, she starts to chuckle. “They look much more comfortable now,” she quips softly, thinking of the almost impossible task of trying to fit two long-legged adults on that backseat, and his grin widens, one eyebrow quirking rakishly.
“Want to test them out?”
Her face grows even warmer, and she wonders if the thought of making love with him will ever stop making her skin blush with heat. “Maybe we should test the engine first?”
He gives her a look of mock disappointment, then she feels his hand on the small of her back, gently urging her into the passenger seat. “After you, milady.”
Settling herself on the ruby red seat, she inhales the scent of new leather and chrome polish and admires the dashboard, now restored to its former glory. “You’ve done an amazing job with this.”
He tosses her a smile she suspects is supposed to be modest. It misses the mark by a mile, but she can’t say she blames him. “Thank you.”
His tone is decidedly smug, confirming her suspicions, and she can’t resist the urge to bring him back down to earth. “Of course, it takes a real expert to spot a rough diamond in a crowded second-hand car lot.”
“Touché.” Chuckling, he reaches out and slides his hand around the nape of her neck, drawing her face to his for a soft, languid kiss that makes her toes curl in her flip flops. Lifting his head, he taps her nose lightly with his index finger, his mouth curving in a slow smile. “Better buckle up, Doctor Tancredi.”
The knocking sound starts fifteen minutes into their journey. She turns down the stereo, her head cocked on one side as she strains to hear a repeat of the noise she knows she’s just heard.
Michael darts her a quick glance. “What?”
She holds up her hand. “I heard something.”
“What did you-”
“Hush,” she tells him, a smile softening her teasing rebuke. “I’m listening.”
Almost before she’s finished speaking, the noise happens again, a dull, heavy rattling that comes from the depths of the engine. Wincing, she turns to Michael. “You heard that?”
He looks unimpressed. “Yes.”
The knocking noise grows louder, then the engine begins to shudder. “Maybe we should pull over?” she suggests gently, hating to be the one to point out the very fact the Rambler is about to fail its first test drive, but knowing it’s the only thing to do.
His hands tighten on the wheel, then he nods. “I’m sorry,” he mutters as he checks the rearview mirror before pulling the car over to the grassy shoulder of the road.
“Don’t be.” She pats his knee, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Twenty minutes later, after several attempts by both of them to discover the problem, she decides it’s time to admit defeat. “Should we call Lincoln, do you think?”
He stares at her, his expression faintly wounded, and she immediately wishes she could take back the words. Offering her a brittle smile, he digs his phone out of his jeans pocket and tosses it to her without a word.
She looks at him, suddenly feeling as though they’ve been plunged back into their stiffly polite roles at Fox River. It’s not a pleasant feeling, then or now, and she takes a step towards him. “Michael-”
“You’d better call him now. He was heading into town after lunch,” he tells her shortly, his gaze no longer meeting hers but roaming the dark mysteries of the engine block.
Biting back a sigh, Sara dials the familiar number, watching the stubborn set of Michael’s jaw as she waits for Lincoln to answer. The more things change, she thinks wryly, the more they stay the same.
“Thanks for picking us up.”
Lincoln grins at her. “No problem.” He looks at his brother. “Tow truck should be here soon.”
“Fine.” A muscle in Michael’s cheek twitches as he adds a flat addendum. “Thanks.”
As he disappears once more behind the raised hood of the car, Lincoln moves to Sara’s side and gives her a conspiratorial glance. “How long has he been sulking?”
She gives him a dry smile. “Since I suggested we call you.”
“I can hear you, you know.” Michael’s voice is muffled, but both she and Lincoln are more than able to hear the irritation dripping from every word.
“Yes, we know,” she lobs back cheerfully as she settles herself in the front passenger seat, trying to find a respite from the growing heat of the sun. Leaning against the car beside her, Lincoln folds his arms and sighs loudly.
“So, apart from the engine stopping, how did it go?”
Mindful of Michael’s undoubted eavesdropping, she smiles. “Pretty good.”
There’s a derisive snort from behind the raised hood. “If you like cars that can only manage to travel ten miles before breaking down.”
Lincoln looks towards the front of the car, then down at her. “I might call the towing company again. See what’s keeping them.”
She sighs, running her fingers over the gleaming dashboard as she wishes – not for the first time - that emotionally complicated men came with an instruction manual. “Good idea.”
She wakes just after midnight to find herself alone in their bed. She drums her fingers on his empty pillow for a few minutes, telling herself that she will not go looking for him, then throws back the sheet and climbs out of bed.
As she’d expected, the light is on in the carport, the muted sound of metal on metal drifting towards the house. Sighing, she makes her way down the stairs, mentally steeling herself for the conversation she knows she’s about to have.
He’d been quiet during dinner, and she knows that his thoughts had not been with their talk of their plans for the next day, the mushroom risotto or even her. In his mind’s eye, he had been traveling through metal gears and pistons, searching for the answer to his perceived failure. She hadn’t tried to jolly him out of his mood, having learned it was better to simply let him work it through. After dinner, he’d stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and excused himself with a distracted kiss. She hadn’t minded. It had given her the evening to herself, leaving her free to crack open her newest crime novel. What she hadn’t envisaged was that he would still be working on the damned car at midnight, two hours after she’d gone to bed alone.
The night air is cool on her bed-warm skin, and she feels her breasts tighten in pleasant reaction beneath her thin robe. Wrapping her arms around herself, she walks slowly towards the carport, savoring the feel of the cool grass beneath her bare feet.
“Michael, it’s after midnight.”
The top half of him is hidden beneath the raised hood of the car. “I know.”
“Why don’t you work on the car in the morning?” She does her best to keep her tone light and breezy. “The light will be better.”
“I want to find out what went wrong,” he says in a carefully modulated voice that doesn’t fool her for a second.
“You know, cars break down all the time.”
He lifts his head to look at her, his expression oddly detached. “I know.” He gives her a smile that doesn’t quite fit his mouth, then turns his attention back to the engine.
Annoyed - and suffering from her own particular form of frustration – she slowly walks to his side, leaning one hip against the fender. She watches him in silence for a moment, admiring the supple lines of his arms and back beneath his threadbare t-shirt, the achingly familiar outline of his profile. While still cropped, his hair is the longest it’s been since she’s known him, and over the last few weeks she’s discovered the novelty of running her fingers through the dark strands. Lifting her hand, she smoothes her palm over the curve of his head as she shifts closer, letting her hip brush against his. “Come to bed.”
“Soon.” His jaw tightens as he stares into the depths of the engine, his eyes dark as he turns to answer her. “I just want to-” He breaks off, his eyes narrowing as he notices her attire for the first time. His gaze drops to her feet before traveling slowly up her bare legs to the fluttering hem of her short robe, then her breasts, the jut of her nipples clearly defined beneath the pale green silk.
She smiles at him. "You were saying?"
He swallows hard, his gaze drifting to the open hood of the car, then back to her once more. "I, uh-"
She trails one fingertip down the curve of his throat, capturing the sudden fluttering of the pulse beneath his jaw. "Hmmm? What did you just want to do?"
His eyes are glowing now, glittering with a heat that's all for her. "That's quite the loaded question, Doctor Tancredi."
She's still grinning when he reaches for her, his mouth covering hers in a slow, hard kiss that sends a rush of heat rippling through her, from the soles of her feet to the tips of her fingers. His hands are dark with engine grease, but she doesn’t care. He cups her breasts with a reverence that makes her stomach clench, his thumbs teasing her nipples through the thin silk of her robe. She arches into him, the Rambler smooth and cool at her back, Michael’s body hard and warm against her breasts and belly and thighs. When his hand slips beneath her robe to stroke her bare bottom, she shudders, nipping his bottom lip with her teeth. “Come to bed,” she breathes against his mouth, her own hands sliding down his back to grip his hips, pulling him hard against her.
He makes a low noise of pleasure as he rocks against her, and she hears the smile in his voice. “The backseat of a car not good enough for you anymore?”
She’s sorely tempted to prove him wrong, but the lure of their bed with its crisp cotton sheets is too strong. “Technically, we only slept in the car last time," she corrects him lightly, wondering if he remembers the rich scent of earth and crushed grass as well as she does, the feel of the thin blanket scratching against their bare skin. She's quite sure he does.
He remembers everything.
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulls her closer, close enough to feel his heart hammering against hers. He smells of leather and grease and lemon soap and she loves him more than she ever thought she could love anyone. A moment passes, then his chest rises against hers as he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” His voice is soft and small, and it almost breaks her heart.
“Don’t be.”
His arms tighten around her as he lifts her away from the car, his lips against her ear as her bare feet slip over the concrete floor of the carport. “I love you.”
She lets out a long breath, a sigh that ends in a smile she feels stretch from ear to ear. “Enough to come to bed?”
His chuckle rumbles from his chest to hers. “Definitely.” His hands are on her hips now, pulling her close enough to feel the lingering aftereffects of their kiss. “On the other hand, there’s a lot to be said for the smell of new leather.”
It’s her turn to laugh now, a chuckle that sounds faintly devilish to her own ears as her hands find his belt buckle, a perfect match for the sudden mischievous urge to give into temptation. “I guess we should complete at least one test drive successfully.”
His hands glide slickly over the curve of her bottom, the heat of his touch warming her through her robe. When he speaks, his voice is thick with a tender hunger that makes her knees quiver. “You open the door, I’ll kill the light.”
A few minutes later, she’s above him, his body buried deep inside hers, his hands leaving inky fingerprints on the pale skin of her breasts. The new leather is cool beneath her knees, his mouth hot on the curve of her throat as they move together, hidden from prying eyes by the cocoon of this tangible piece of their shared history.
Later still, he holds her hand as they stumble laughingly towards the house, the faint scent of leather and grease and sex trailing in their wake. He murmurs something about definitely fixing the car the next day, and she nods, stifling a yawn against his shoulder. The more things change, she muses for the second time that day, this time with a smile curving her lips, the more they stay the same.