Gabe (Blue-Collar Billionaires 3)

"Awesome. I'll let Finn know to set up the meeting. Thanks. I'll owe you one."

I hang up and slip my cell phone back into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. Today I've dressed the part in a simple two-button pinstripe that never fails to convey responsible business owner.

The auto garage that Zack and I own has been doing really well for a few years now. He's been trying to convince me to open another location for six months. Since most of the counties in Virginia require you to appear in person to gain a business license, I've been putting it off. But after running reports and seeing the proof in black and white that our business has been on a steady increase for the past year, I finally agreed.

But as the voices of the women in front of me increase, so does my feeling that I should have waited longer to tackle this particular issue. Preferably when we were big enough to be a corporation and I could designate someone else to handle these sorts of things.

"This is the wrong form. You need an application for a business license, not a liquor license."

The woman behind the counter looks like she's rapidly losing patience. With her gray hair and oversized glasses, she reminds me of a teacher I once had. If this lady is anything like Miss Rosings, then all the explanations in the world aren't going to cut it.

The girl at the counter is apparently fearless. Or reckless. Her voice rises in what is starting to sound like hysteria.

"But that can't be right! The last time I was here, the man told me I needed a liquor license. I downloaded all this and filled it out and now you're telling me this is wrong again?"

"Ma'am, you do need a liquor license. This is just the wrong place to submit that. This is where you get your business license. Did you bring the form for that?"

"No, I thought this was what I needed."

The Miss Rosings lookalike hands a sheaf of forms over the desk. "Fill those out and then bring them back. Next!"

"But wait a minute—"

"Next!"

I can feel the tension rising in the room. This is the last time I volunteer to handle the paperwork just to spare Zack. Normally we share the administrative hassles but I wanted to escape the office. When I made the decision a few years back to go straight, I knew I'd have to get used to a more sedate life. Being a responsible law-abiding citizen is by definition less exciting but it's also safer. There's no worries about who might be after me or whether I'll get caught up in something. And I'm proud of the atmosphere Zack and I have created at the shop. We have fun most of the time.

We have a great group of guys and Jim and the crew are like family. But every day it's the same thing. Every night it's the same thing. Sometimes the need for excitement has me feeling like I want to crawl out of my skin. Or scream.

More than anything I just want something to surprise me.

The guy in front of me makes a frustrated noise and puts his hands on his head. I can't see much of the girl at the counter, just a riot of long black curls and an oversized black coat. But she doesn't look like she's going anywhere.

I lean forward. "Sweetheart, you're holding up the line."

"Did you just call me sweetheart?" She whips around and the rest of whatever else I was about to say gets trapped in the back of my throat.

Golden brown skin. Full, pouty lips. Whiskey-colored eyes framed by long lashes. Big innocent eyes. She looks like Bambi. From her husky voice I was expecting a much older woman, not this fiery little thing who is currently shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

Now this is a surprise.

By the time my brain makes sense of what she's said, I open my mouth to say something and nothing comes out. While she's distracted, the guy in front of me pushes past and drops a big file folder on the counter. Bambi looks over at him and then sends me another glare. Then she clutches the papers to her chest and walks out, the glass door to the office swinging shut behind her. A sheet of paper floats behind her and lands in the hallway.

I glance up front again at the guy's overflowing folder. Then I turn and walk out, pausing only to pick up the piece of paper she dropped. I read the top of the form. Virginia Alcoholic Beverage Control. It's an application for a liquor license, filled out with her name, business name, address—the works. Sasha Whitman. The dramatic swipe of her signature fits her.

My hand clenches around the form. Although it's doubtful she'll thank me, I follow her outside. I definitely don't want anyone else to pick this up. Any psycho could have found this. Or a guy like me which isn't much better.

I jog slightly to catch up with her in the parking lot. She's bent over, shoving her things onto the passenger seat of an ancient Volvo. I wince when she closes the door and it lets out a screeching sound. When she turns around, I'm startled at the tear tracks on her face. She wipes at them hastily with the back of her hand.

"Please tell me I didn't make you cry."

That coaxes a small smile from her lips. "No, it wasn't you. In case you couldn't tell I'm having a fantastic day."

"Well, good. I honestly wasn't trying to be patronizing. I was trying to warn you not to provoke the warden in there. She doesn't look like the sympathetic type."

"Yeah, I noticed." Her words aren't even bitter, more resigned. She seems sad now.

I hold out the paper she dropped. "You'll need this. It needs to be submitted at the ABC. You can mail it though. You only have to appear in person for the business license."