The perfect morning at the shop.
Then just before lunch, Mitch’s phone rings, and when I glance over, his eyes meet mine, and I know.
He needs to go.
I can’t hear what he’s saying into the phone, but he hangs his head and rubs his hand over the back of his neck.
When he hangs up, he crosses over to me.
“Go,” I tell him before he can say anything.
“I’m in the middle of this oil change, and then I have?—”
“I know what you have.” I signal for Jake to join us. “Show Jake the oil change, and he’ll finish it up, and then we’ll figure out the rest.”
“I’m sorry, Brooks?—”
“She’s yourwife,” I remind him, and he swallows hard. “Go take care of her.”
“I’ve got this,” Jake says, his usual playful smirk long gone. “No problem, man. Glad to help.”
Mitch nods, then gestures for Jake to follow him so he can get the kid—who isn’t so much a kid anymore—caught up on what he’s doing.
And that’s just the start of the shit show that today ends up being.
The motor failed in my air compressor, and I have to wait a day for the repairman to come take care of it.
It took methree timeslonger than it should have to access a goddamn fuel filter in a Suburban and ate up more than two hours of my time.
I had threeemergenciesbrought in, and by emergencies, I mean the owner practically begged me to get their job done next, no matter the cost.
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
It’s just a colossal dumpster fire of a day, and when I have two minutes to check the time, my frustration level is at a ten when I see that it’s well past six in the evening. Gabe and Jake are long gone for the day, and I’m here alone.
I was never able to get away and help my wife with her restaurant. I still have several hours of work to do here tonight.
Picking up my phone, I notice that I missed a few texts from her.
Wildfire: I hope you’re having a good day! All is well over here, just miss you.
Fuck, she’s sweet.
Wildfire: Things are going faster than I expected. Should be done by around six. Want me to bring you dinner?
Shit, that was an hour ago. I wash my hands and am about to start typing a response when the door opens, and my girl walks in, holding a bag of food, very much like that night a few weeks ago.
Fuck, I want her.
Her eyes scan the garage, and then she smiles when she sees me.
“You’ve always loved John Mellencamp,” she says, pointing up, as if the speaker is just above her head. “I brought you dinner. I made some?—”
“Put the bag down, Juliet.”
Her blue eyes widen, and she licks her lower lip as she walks to the counter and sets the bag of food—that smells fuckingincredible—aside.
“Take your clothes off.”
