Sounds pretty amazing, doesn't it? And I don't just say that because I have a thing for YA paranormal. Check this out:
I followed the sounds to the garage, where Blue Eyes sat on a wooden box and tinkered with a greasy thingamajigger that looked like something one pulled out of a robot. I couldn’t tell where the music came from, but I recognized the classic rock tune. Not bad.
He didn’t glance up or move, yet the music stopped. Magic? No, I shouldn’t even think like that. It was illogical. Magic didn’t exist.
“I thought we agreed to stay away from each other, Freckles.”
I’m not letting him get to me. Not this time. “I plan to, but you fixed the Petersons’ mailbox, so I’m here to thank you.”
“Courteous? You? What happened to the snarky girl I met earlier? Raine with an E?” He looked up, a wicked smile curling his lips. “I liked her.”
I ignored the dig. “How did you do it?”
He wiped his greasy hands on a cloth. “Magic.”
“Don’t start. Magic is not real.”
“Me. Science. Logic.”
“Okay, Freckles. We’ll play this your way. We’ll say I was inspired, and there’re no heights a man can’t reach when...” he got up, leaned closer, and whispered, “inspired.”
I stepped back. He was overwhelming up close. Vibrant. “Uh, well, I just wanted to say thanks and see how much I owe you for replacing it.”
He pulled a folded manila envelope from the back of his pants and offered it to me. It was the envelope I’d used for the Petersons’ mail, but the letter I’d taped on it was missing.
“Where’s my letter?”
“Check inside. It was a very sweet and sincere apology.”
Part of me was outraged he’d read my letter, but I wasn’t surprised. He was rude. “So how much do I owe you?”
He pushed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, giving me a glimpse of skin around his waist. I quickly averted my eyes before he could catch me ogling him again.
“Let’s see,” he said slowly. “Fixing the mailbox, your car, sitting through tea with the two nosey ladies across the street, and listening to their gossip makes that—”
“You fixed my car? There was no dent on it.”
“Scratches. Mrs. Rutledge and Mrs. Ross believed you deliberately crashed into the Petersons’ mailbox. The scratches would have confirmed it, but I convinced them they were mistaken.”
“Convinced them how?”
“By drinking lukewarm tea and eating rock hard scones.” He shuddered.
I smiled despite myself. “Okay. So how much do you want?”
“I don’t want your money, Freckles.” His voice became serious. “But one day I’ll need a favor and you’ll drop everything for me.”
Put that way, it sounded ominous, like he already knew what favor he planned to ask. I shivered. “As long as it’s within reason.”
“I’ve been told I’m a reasonable guy.” The smile he gave me was slow and so wicked my breath caught. I stepped back.
“Well, uh, goodnight.” I hurried away, but I was aware of his eyes on me.
His laughter reached me when I stopped to check the rear end of my car.