Huge Working Hero (Hard Working Hero 3)

“Thank you so much. I was going crazy looking for him.”

“I know, I could see the distress on your face.” He tilts his chin down and looks up at me as he rubs the back of his neck. “I'd be upset too.”

“We've had some coyotes around lately. I was terrified he got eaten or something.”

“Well, he's safe and sound.” Brand reaches out and scratches Garlits's head again.

His fingers brush mine lightly, sending sparks shooting up through my arm. He stares at me. I stare at him. Then he smiles bigger, biting softly on his bottom lip in a bashful kind of way.

“All right, well, I've got work to do. I don't want your dad firing me after only a few days because I got distracted by his beautiful daughter.”

Now it's my turn to be bashful. My cheeks warm, and I'm certain they're flushing red as apples. I giggle, my eyes darting away from his to look at the wall.

“See you later. . .” His voice trails off, the last word hanging in the air as more of a question.

Your name! He wants your name idiot!

“Oh, Kelsie. My name's Kelsie.”

“I thought that's what I heard your dad say, I just wanted to make sure.” He closes his lips and smiles. “Kelsie,” he says again. “See you around.”

Brand turns and walks away. He heads across the back deck and down the steps. I watch him the entire way until I can't see him anymore.

Garlits licks my chin, pulling me out of the lust haze the man left me in.

I'm standing in limbo. My mind races with dirty thoughts. His hands on my body. His lips on my skin. His tongue as he tastes me from head to toe.

All good thoughts. All dangerous thoughts.

But only one sticks like glue.

Is his mouth as hard and rough as the callouses on his hands?

I really would love to find out.

2

Brand

Thick white smoke billows out from the end of the exhaust pipe. It tastes like syrup on my tongue as I inhale with a cough, swallowing some of the fumes at the same time.

“Shit, I think there's a hole in the exhaust,” Mr. Klein says, leaning out from under the hood, his eyes heartedly studying the white smoke still lingering in the air. “You see it? You see that smoke? It's probably a pin hole.”

“Uh, Sir,” I say, holding up my finger. “I don't think it's a hole. I'm pretty sure it's the head gasket.”

“Head gasket?” he asks, shifting his eyes to mine briefly before letting them drop to the engine. “No,” he says, dismissing me quickly. “A hole is the only thing that makes sense. Why else would there be smoke like that?”

I walk back to the front of the car, thinking of how I can tell him he's wrong. I'm not trying to seem like a know it all, but this guy doesn't seem to have a clue.

Good thing I'm here, then.

Mr. Klein is fiddling with the pulley on the belt. I have no idea what he's trying to do, but it's obvious to me he knows nothing about how an engine works. He pulls up on the pulley, loosening the belt to simply pull it back a hair. He did nothing to help the engine at all.

“Can you smell that, Mr. Klein?” I ask, lifting my nose to the sky. “That sweet smell?”

“Yeah, it smells like maple syrup.”

“Right, that's coolant. There's probably a crack in the head gasket and coolant is leaking into the cylinders. That's where the white smoke is coming from.”

“Huh, really?” He sounds generally interested. “And a leak can cause that?”

“I'm just taking an educated guess. But, yeah, I'd probably say that's the issue. I mean, there's a chance the heater core is shot, but you wouldn't get that white smoke from it.” I lean under the hood, bringing my face close to the engine. Popping the top on the coolant reserve, I look inside. “Yup, it's definitely low. See?”

I pull back, giving Mr. Klein room to look for himself. “Yeah, it's low.”

I run my fingers around the hoses, but they're clean. “I don't see any coolant on the ground and there's none leaking from here either.” Holding up my fingers, he inspects them and nods.

“You're sure it's the gasket?” he asks.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“Okay, let me go make a few calls to see if I can get a new head gasket. I can do it tomorrow.”

“Have you changed one before?”

“No, but how hard can it be?” He's facing away, walking to the door inside the garage that leads inside. “Give me a few minutes. For now, can you drain the oil?”

“Sure,” I say.

Wilson Klein, owner of Klein Motors up on Balfour Road, not too far from the Brentwood Golf Club. A fancy place for a high-end shop if I've ever seen one. Plus, being so close to the golf course makes it easy for him to go there for lunch and play a few holes during the week.