Read Sing for Free Online Page B

there until he drives away or I melt, whichever happens fastest. Sunglasses? For the sun? It’s embarrassing to admit, but there are times when it’s easier to be recognized. Times like these, for example, when it would give me an excuse to stop talking, or at least start talking about something else.
    â€œYou don’t say,” the guy grumbles from the other side of the hood. He stands and scratches his upper arm, revealing a hint of one tanned tricep. I feel my face going red, which is annoying—I’m not in the mood for muscles and blushing. I glance away from him and up at the bed of his truck. It’s stacked high with long wire crates, tangles of mesh nets, and a pile of oblong buoys. Tucked between two empty traps is a long yellow surfboard, its rounded nose jutting out over the tailgate.
    â€œYou surf?” I ask as he stands, waving off the steam and lightly pressing on the bumper. “I mean, obviously. I took a lesson once. My friend wants to learn this summer. It’s on her summer bucket list. Not that she’s dying. She just . . . it’s something she wants to do.”
    The guy is still carefully inspecting the hood of my car, which has finally stopped smoking. There’s a gnarly looking dent in the bumper and a pattern of scratches near the front, and I’m reminded of Tess and the whole killing-me scenario, which, given the way this conversation is going, now seems like a welcome alternative.
    He holds out his hand and it takes me a minute to understand that he’s asking for my keys.
    â€œAre you a mechanic?” I ask. I realize there’s little chance he’s going to drive off with Tess’s car, and if he did, he wouldn’t get far, considering we’re on an island. But it still seems important to establish his credibility before handing over her keys to a complete stranger.
    He stares at me for a long moment, and I’m sure this is when it will happen. When he’ll finally recognize me. But I can tell by the look in his eyes—which, unfortunately, are a bright and almost breathtaking blue—that he has no clue who I am.
    â€œNo, I’m not a mechanic,” he says, impatiently running a hand over the top of his cropped light hair. “Are you?”
    I drop the keys in his palm and watch as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “It’s not my car,” I call after him. “I mean, I didn’t steal it or anything. It’s my friend’s. It’s a hybrid. It’s sort of tricky to turn on. There’s this thing with a button?”
    Within seconds the car is whirring to a frenzied start. He glances over his shoulder before slowly backing up. There’s a nasty-sounding crunch as the car unsticks from the undercarriage of his truck, but he doesn’t flinch. He reverses all the way back toward the stop sign, then hops out and jogs back to me.
    â€œSo what’s the bad news?” I ask as he pulls open his door and starts to climb in. “How much do I owe you?”
    â€œMe?” The guy smiles for the first time, and my insides turn to a familiar pool of wobbly goo. According to Tess, the year-round population on the island is around two thousand. What are the chances that on my first day, I literally run into the best-looking person here? “Well, it is a work vehicle,” he says, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not to mention my only transportation, so . . .”
    â€œOf course.” I nod solemnly.
    â€œI’d say about fifteen grand?” he ventures. “I mean, like I said, I’m no mechanic, but that seems a reasonable guess.”
    My heart clenches. Who racks up fifteen thousand dollars in damage driving on an island with four major roads and no stoplights? A boxy Jeep rolls through the intersection between us, and the driver and the guy share a wave. I duck behind my hand, imagining the next big headlines: Lily Ross in