Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Good God.
What was wrong with me?
I literally spent my days surrounded by men. All of them were, arguably, pretty good-looking. I never reacted like this to them.
To be fair, the men I worked with were openly hostile and talked crap behind my back. So, yeah, maybe I was just responding to an attractive guy being nice to me for a change.
He was, too.
Nice.
He even smiled when I let my mouth run away with me. Like he was charmed by me. Or, you know, that was more than likely wishful thinking.
Either way, I wasn’t exactly upset that he would be coming back in a week to talk.
About what, I had absolutely no idea.
But maybe the infernal paperwork would give me some answers.
“Why the hell didn’t you have a computer?” I grumbled at the empty room once Santo Grassi—and his sexy voice, gorgeous face, and delicious cologne—was gone.
A computer, printer, scanner… all that stuff was necessary for running a business. Or, at least, running a streamlined one. Clearly, Uncle Phil had been managing with his old-school system. But only he knew how to organize it.
“Still can’t figure out why you left this to me,” I murmured to the urn I’d placed on the corner of the desk since I couldn’t imagine anywhere in the world Uncle Phil would want to spend eternity but in his garage.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” David asked, making me jump and turn to find him leaning in the doorway. He was sipping coffee out of my duck and bunny mug that he’d kept for himself after that failed first attempt to connect with the mechanics.
“You startled me,” I said, annoyed with how fast my heart had tripped into overdrive. “Did you need something?”
“That guy was out of here fast.”
“We, uh, rescheduled,” I said. “I’m trying to… sort all this mess out. He seemed to sense that.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Depends. How good are you at reading… whatever language this is supposed to be?” I asked, waving a piece of paper at him.
“Yeah, Phil had shit handwriting. Always had to ask him to tell us what his notes said. Can’t help you with that.”
“Can you tell me why he didn’t have a computer?”
“Phil couldn’t even figure out how to work his cell. He was never gonna figure out a computer.”
“You make it sound like they’re new inventions. They’ve been common for the past, like, forty years.”
“He still had an 8-track in his truck,” David reminded me.
“He has a VCR at home too,” I added, shaking my head. “And one of those rear-projection flat screens out of the ‘90s with a massive stand underneath it. I don’t even know how or where I can get rid of it.”
“You’re living at Phil’s place?” David asked, making my spine straighten, wondering if I’d just confessed something I shouldn’t have. Was it crossing some professional line to talk about where I lived?
“Uh, yes. At least for the time being. I moved here from Washington.”
“D.C.?”
“State.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you move here?”
“To… run the garage.”
“Do you even know what a camshaft is?”
“A shaft that contains a row of pointed rams used in a piston engine to operate the intake and exhaust valves.”
Did I sound like I was quoting a textbook? Yes. Because I totally was.
See, when I was met with instant and overt hostility from the men at the shop, I decided to open one of my uncle’s old books and learn at least the basics of how an engine worked. I was never going to be on my back under my car changing my own oil. But now at least it wouldn’t feel like a mechanic was speaking a foreign language when they were talking to me about what was wrong with my car.
“Been doing some light reading, huh?” David asked, shooting me a small smirk. “You know that’s not gonna help you with them out there,” he said, waving his mug toward the men in the garage.
“Probably not,” I agreed. “But at least they won’t be able to throw it in my face that I know nothing about cars anymore.”
“How old are you?” he asked, making my brows shoot up.
“Is that relevant?”
“Twenty-two? Three?”
“Five. Older than some of the guys out there,” I reminded him.
“And younger than the rest.”
“You’re older than me. Does it bother you that I’m here?”
His answer to that was to shrug and sip from my mug again. “So long as my paycheck keeps coming, I’ve got no issues.”
With that, he was gone.
I mean, it wasn’t the answer I wanted. David seemed like my only ally at the shop. I kind of hoped he would tell me he was fine with my presence, that I might even be a good thing for the garage.
I guess I needed to stop trying to find friends at my workplace. I wasn’t used to being in charge. My last job had been at this little indie clothing store where we were all just equal. It was the kind of environment where we had fun and laughed all through the shift, then hung out afterward.