Miss Mechanic

I didn’t look like I belonged in a garage at all. The only thing that gave it away was my unpolished, trimmed nails.

What? You couldn’t fit a new gearbox if you had talons on the ends of your fingers, and nothing frustrated me more than chipped polish after working.

Silence held between us for a minute. Dex, as he wanted to be called, said nothing. He didn’t even stare at me. He looked—glared—at my resume. The battle he fought was obvious.

He was new to town, and Facebook showed he’d been advertising for two weeks.

There was nobody nearby who was a mechanic.

I was his first and only application.

I leaned against the counter, resting my fingers against its edge. “Mr. Ryne—”

“Is my father,” he replied.

Well, that much was for sure. His politeness made me want to refer to him as “son,” never mind mister. And he was definitely older than me.

“Dex,” I said, adding extra emphasis. “If you have an issue with hiring me, say so right now so I can stop wasting my time with this conversation.”

“What makes you think I have an issue with you?”

Flatly, I stared at him. “I’m a woman.”

He waved his hand, slapping my resume down off the counter. The sheets scattered to the floor. “Never worked with one that wasn’t on reception. Never come across one that didn’t belong on reception.”

My heels tapped against the linoleum as I walked around the counter and, for the second time, held out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Dexter Ryne. My name is Jamie Bell, and I most definitely do not belong on reception.”

Once again, he glanced at my hand. He held his up. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty dress, darlin’.”

I snatched his hand out of the air and dragged it down between us, shaking it firmly. Eyes still on his, I said, “A little oil doesn’t bother me, darlin’.”

He held my hand for a moment, our gazes locked, before he ground out, “I guess you better let yourself out the back, then.” He let go of my hand, then leaned over the counter and peered down at my heels. “Sorry, I don’t have another pair of shoes for you to wear.”

“No bother.” I unhooked the bar-like counter and stepped to within inches of his body. “I’ve changed tires in higher heels than these.”

I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed at my mouth. And I didn’t care.

If Dex Ryne was going to come into my town and run his mouth at me, I was going to teach him a thing or two about small-town, Southern girls.

I was sweet as pie.

Until you pissed me off.

Then…

Well, then, I’d shut you down quicker than a hooker shut down a guy after a free blowie.

“Are we going?” I asked when he didn’t move.

He turned and yanked the door open. It slammed back against the stopper installed on the floor and swung right back to closed.

I stilled and let out a sigh.

But hey—this was closer than I’d ever been before.

I pulled open the door. Immediately, I was hit with the rich scent of fuel and oil. Of metal and grease.

Of everything I was comfortable with.

Not caring at all, I took the step down onto the workshop floor and looked around.

It hadn’t changed a bit.

No matter what they’d done to the outside, the inside was the same. The tool racks commanded the same wall. The work counters commanded the same, and the doors to the bathroom and staff room hadn’t been replaced.

They’d re-painted everything, including the red floor, but it had all been futile. Tools and oil and paint covered every surface. It was every inch the garage it was the day we sold it.

It even had Mrs. Hawkins’ little Ford in the corner. The damn car was always in for something or another—we’d even ‘fixed’ her lack of fuel issue before.

In a weird way, it was good to see that some things didn’t change.

It was definitely strange to see someone else’s things here, though. Almost disconcerting not to look in the far corner and see my father’s beloved tool unit and the old oil sign that used to hang above it. Now, that corner was bare.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Dex eyed me speculatively—almost cruelly, actually. There was a dark glint in his gaze that sent a shiver down my spine.

I looked out of place right now, but properly dressed, I’d be home.

“This is it,” he said, waving his arm around the garage. Slowly, he gave me the tour. Showed me where everything was, and I hummed as if it was all unfamiliar to me.

When it was done, I rested my hand against the side of a toolbox. “You look like you’d rather be anyone else.”

“I’d rather you be a man,” he said coolly.

“Does it matter? I’m just as qualified as any other person would be.” I folded my arms across my chest, and the strap of my purse cut into the crook of my elbow. “There’s nothing any man could do that I can’t.”