Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

the sun had a chance to burn the dew off the grass. I stood back as Ian lifted the hood and peered inside. He made a tsking sound, and I figured I was about to get fussed at.

“Casey.” His voice was quiet, but I wasn’t deceived. He looked over his shoulder at me. “When’s the last time you looked under the hood of this car?”

Yep. I was right.

I sniffed, trying to dredge up a little Black Swan. “I never look under the hood of a car if I can help it.”

“And I’m guessing you’re about to explain to me why that is?”

I licked my lips and thought fast. “What good would it do? I wouldn’t know what any of that stuff under there is supposed to look like anyway. How would I even know...?”

“Well, I’ll bet you could figure this one out.” He motioned me toward him with one grimy hand.

This was some sort of trick, I could tell. “I’d rather stay back here.” My view of his jeans-clad backside and muscle-filled T-shirt was much better from this distance anyway.

“Get over here and look at this,” he growled.

I eased forward, cradling my Styrofoam coffee cup as if it offered some protection. Then I peered down into the black and gray mass of metal and hoses under the hood of my car.

Ian stepped back, the long fingers of his grease-smeared hands spread on his lean hips. “You tell me what’s wrong with this car.”

“Um...” Feeling like a murder suspect about to receive a life sentence, I leaned forward and took a closer look. “That fan-thingy in front isn’t supposed to be hanging by a wire?”

He clapped his hands once, really loud, and I jumped like I’d been shot. Not life sentence after all; death sentence by firing squad. “You win the prize. That ‘fan-thingy’ is what keeps your engine from overheating.” His voice had an over-exaggerated patient tone that made me want to find the nearest hollow log and crawl into it. “And no, it is not supposed to be hanging by a wire.”

Ian stared me down, his warm whiskey eyes colder than I’d ever seen them.

Boy, he could be scary when he wanted to be.

“This is a vintage car, Casey. You can’t take its care and maintenance for granted. How long have you been driving it like this?”

I shrugged, staring down into my cooling coffee. Now was probably not the time to stand up to him. I should pick my battles, and this was one I couldn’t win. “You mean, exactly?”

“How long has your car been overheating?”

“Only when I drive a long way in stop-and-go traffic,” I said, oozing meekness.

“For how long?” he thundered.

“About... I don’t know, a couple of months.” More like four, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Ian spun around to stare out through the trees. “Do you ever check the oil? The water? Anythin’?” His back was to me, his Scottishness rising, his voice just barely under control.

“Sometimes my daddy checks it for me.”

Ian looked heavenward but didn’t say anything. He walked to his car, opened the trunk, took out an old rag and wiped his hands.

“We’re going to the auto parts store.” He slammed the hood and checked that the doors were locked. “This may take a while.”

*

“Come on, girls, get up.” I clapped my hands to perk up my advanced students. “I know it’s Monday, and I’m ready to go home, too. But give me a break. If you take too long getting your pointe shoes on, your muscles will get cold.”

They hustled to finish taping blisters and wrapping toes in wool batting or gel pads before shoving them into the torture box. “Victoria, if you put one more bandage on your toes, they won’t fit inside your shoe. Enough, already!”

“But my toes hurt.” She wiggled her toes at me and whimpered. “The blister on my baby toe is bleeding already, and we haven’t even done anything on pointe yet.”

“They’ll get numb once we get going.” I turned toward the stereo. “Let’s do a quickie at the barre and then we’ll go right on to the center combination we did last week.”

Quiet giggles erupted behind me, and someone said “whoo-eee” under her breath.

I turned to see Ian leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore those button-fly jeans that made me want to jump his bones, an ink-stained tee ripped at one shoulder, and a lopsided little grin that made it impossible for me to look away.

But I did it anyway. “Keely, please get the music going—the third selection, for tendu and degage.” I gave quick directions for the combination. “Facing the barre, you’ll do echappe, echappe, releve, sauté. If you’re up to it, substitute entre-chat-quatre for the sauté. After four repetitions, follow with the coupe, sauté, coupe, sauté, pas-de-bourre over, pas-de-bourre under combination we did last week. Got it?”

“Got it,” they replied in unison. Keely started the music, and I could hear the familiar thump-swish sounds of the class going through the combination. I walked toward Ian and tried not to seem overjoyed to see him.

He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “I’d like to do a quickie at the barre...”

Heat spread up from my chest to consume my face, but even in my embarrassment I could appreciate the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“Come to dinner with me tonight.” I could smell the tantalizing spice of his skin, feel the heat of his body reaching out to mine.

I looked at the clock above the mirror, noting my students’ reflections as they executed the simple pointe warm-up.

“I have another half-hour of class.” Less than twenty minutes, really, but it would take time for the girls to get their things together.

“I’ll wait.”

“I’m not dressed for dinner.”

“I’ll take you and Lizzie home and wait while you get dressed. Better yet, I’ll take you both to my house and cook steaks on the grill.”

“I have to take a shower.” The music ended and my students eyed