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you.”
    “But, uh…er..” he sputtered, and I could tell he was ready to backtrack.
    “What are you doing still sitting there? What you should be doing, Mr. Hero, is rushing over to my disabled vehicle and putting those chiseled bicep muscles to work. Go on. Unload everything and repack it all in the trunk of your car.” I relaxed back onto the headrest and started watching my nails, just to make it believable.
    “Christ almighty,” he mumbled, swearing under his breath as he pressed the button to pop the trunk, got out of the car, and started walking over to mine.
    I got out and followed him. “Man, you need to lighten up. I was kidding…well, I was mostly kidding.”
    He opened passenger side back door of my car and turned to look at me. “Exactly what part were you serious about?”
    “The accepting your offer for a ride part. If you’re still offering?” I gave him the sweetest smile I could gather up, and batted my eyelashes a bit. I hear that shit could make a guy do anything, if he’s smitten, which my gut told me Chris was.
    “Aww hell. Fine. Serves me right for letting my dick run the show.”
    “Thanks! I mean, thank you, Chris . Wait, did I get that right? Or do you prefer much obliged, Chris ?” I had to rub it in a little. “I’ll get my stuff moved into the trunk, soldier. You relax. I wouldn’t want you damaging any of my things.”
    He lifted his hand to his forehead, clearly frustrated with me, but something told me he wasn’t as upset as he made out to be. “I’m not gonna stand here and let you carry all that. Plus the tow truck will be here any minute now. You unload what you have and set aside whatever is fragile. Those can go in behind your seat. I’ll pack the rest in the trunk.”
    “Great!”
    I got to work sorting out stuff. Really, all I had were two banged up old suitcases of clothes, four medium-sized stackable plastic containers, two framed pieces of my artwork and a cardboard poster tube. That, my purse, and the food I’d packed. God, it was pathetic. He was right. That was all I had. That was my life.
    I’d promised him I wouldn’t cry so I took a deep breath. I leaned the framed pictures against the side of the car and placed the food bag on the hood, passing him the rest of the stuff one by one. He made each trip with his arms full and got the big stuff put away in three trips to his trunk. Nothing seemed too heavy for him. Then again, he was a jock.
    “These two picture frames are all that’s going in the car?”
    “Yes. I can grab something from the suitcase to wrap the corners so they don’t scratch your interior.”
    “Not to worry. I’ve got something.” He was carrying them over when he stopped and looked at them closely then turned back to me. “Okay. Dumb question. Don’t get mad, but why would you transport these pictures all the way to New Orleans when you could just replace them at a Walmart when you get there?”
    For the sake of not losing it, I simply answered with, “I painted those.”
    He laughed as though it was a joke. I was rearing to throat punch him until he finally said, “You painted these. I don’t even know if I can believe that, darlin’. These look like still shots. You really did these?”
    Because he was just ignorant about art, I didn’t end up throat punching him after all. “Yes. I really did paint these. You’re a jock who hasn’t seen much art, so I’ll give you some slack. This style of painting is called photorealism. It’s where we study a photograph and try to recreate it as close to identical as possible using artist tools and techniques.”
    “Wow. It’s amazing. You had to have spent a ton of time on those.”
    “I sure did. It’s painstaking work, but I love it.”
    “Where did you learn to do all that?”
    “Art class. It’s the only thing I liked about high school.”
    “Well you’re great at it.”
    “Thanks, but it doesn’t pay the bills. It’s just a hobby.”
    “You’d have to have