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. Did I really have scratches? How and when had he fixed them? Maybe the motorcycle I’d heard after picking up my car hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. He probably went to DC Tires and spray painted over the scratches. One phone call tomorrow should confirm it.