“I try to be.” He'd given up a well-paying, upwardly mobile position to come home, though. So he tended to watch his dollars and keep a level head. “I like this business, but my heart is in my workshop.”
She stopped chewing, swallowed and wiped her lips.
He wasn't sure why he would divulge something so personal. Even his father didn't know that this was going to be a part-time business for him. He just couldn't stand being cooped up in an office all day, everyday.
“Amazing.” Her eyes were wide and filled with longing.
His gut twisted even though he knew she wasn't longing for him personally. “You seem disbelieving.”
“I keep working my butt off to get somewhere that I'm happy and you just seem to walk right into it.” She placed the plastic fork on her plate and stood. “I should go.”
Crap. “I didn't mean to make you feel bad.” He stood quickly when she stuffed her roll back into the take-out bag. “I've worked my butt off, I swear. Late nights during college. Barely getting by, living in New York City. Uh, I owned a pinto.”
He didn't want her to leave.
She narrowed her dark brown eyes—a glint of reflection hitting her pupil and giving them life. “What year?”
“Seventy-two.” Heat rose on his neck. God, she didn't know about cars, too, did she?
“That's not working your butt off! That's a classic. What did you pay for it?”
“Five hundred dollars,” he retorted. And a few to several thousand for the refurbishing, which he'd done himself. Okay, so he'd had it pretty easy. But he'd earned what mattered. He'd never taken any handouts and he'd worked hard.