Then she went downstairs to check on Josh, who had been working for what felt like hours.
She found him crawling out of what looked like a completely different tow truck.
“Oh, wow.”
He gestured to the totally clean cab. “Thought I’d detail it before you have to get in it to drive to dinner.”
“Your truck cleans up almost as nice as you do,” she said.
He looked faintly amused at that and flexed grease-streaked arms. “You overestimate what I’m going to be able to do in an hour. I had a customer drop off a car that needs a new muffler, so I got a little dirty before I started this job, checking that out.”
She pressed her lips together.
He grinned. “Say it.”
“I like it when you get a little dirty,” she whispered.
He laughed, and it rang out through the whole garage. And then for the third time that day, a private moment was interrupted by someone arriving at the garage—but this time, Monica didn’t recognize the visitor. And from the way Josh greeted the wiry young white man, she didn’t think he did, either.
He waved. “Can I help you?”
“Hey, yeah…” The guy glanced around. “I’m new to the area and I’m looking for work.”
“I’m not looking to hire anyone right now, but I’m happy to take your resume for the future.” Josh crossed to the counter and grabbed a business card. “Here’s my contact information. Josh Kincaid.”
“Will Smith.” The guy gave a faint smile. “No relation.”
Josh’s smile was equally faint. “All right.”
The guy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I have a resume here.”
Josh took it and glanced it over. His brow furrowed a little, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll put this on file.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The guy glanced around the garage again, his gaze lingering on Monica now, in a way that made her wish she was wearing Josh’s heavy flannel shirt on top of the sweater. “This your girl?”
Josh gestured for the door, ignoring the question. “We’re actually just about to close.”
The guy pulled out his phone, holding it and the business card up at the same time. “Okay. Can I just put your—”
“Hey!” Josh planted one hand in the middle of buddy’s chest and shoved him backwards, hard enough that he bounced into the door, which swung open. The guy stumbled backward, almost sprawling flat on his ass—and he would have if Owen wasn’t standing right there to catch him.
Monica gasped as Josh’s brother glanced from the customer in his arms, to her furious husband, and then finally to her.
She had no idea what was going on.
“This guy—”
Owen cut off the whiny protest. “Hey bud, didya trip backwards?”
Even from where Monica stood behind him, she could tell Josh was scowling simply from the squared-off set of his tense shoulders. “He sure did. Right after he tried to take a picture of Monica. Check his phone.”
The guy yelped as Owen snatched up the phone and held it, for a split second, in front of the stranger’s face, then tossed it to Josh.
“Rule number one of being some kind of sneak,” Josh said coldly. “Don’t use Face ID to open your phone. Are you paparazzi or a private investigator?”
Monica’s blood chilled. She didn’t like either of those possibilities. And how had Josh known so quickly?
Josh tapped on the screen a few times. Grunted. Tapped twice more, then tossed the phone back. “Get out.”
