For the next two hours, we work together in a rhythm that develops surprisingly quickly. She's attentive and follows directions well, anticipating what tool I'll need next after just a few repetitions. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I explainmore than I usually would, walking her through each step of the process.
"Holy shit," she breathes when we finally get the cylinder head off. "That does not look good."
She's right. The inside of the engine is a mess. Carbon deposits cake the cylinders, and one of the valves is clearly bent.
"No, it doesn't." I probe at the damage with a screwdriver. "This is going to need a complete rebuild."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we tear it all the way down, clean everything, replace what's damaged, and put it back together." I glance at her. "It's the most labor-intensive job in automotive repair."
Instead of looking discouraged, her eyes light up. "So I'll really get to see how it all works! Silver lining."
I can't help the chuckle that escapes me. "You're something else, Sandra Hemmings."
"Is that a compliment or an observation?" She wipes a smudge of grease from her cheek, succeeding only in spreading it further.
"Both," I admit, reaching out before I can stop myself to wipe away the grease with my thumb. Her skin is soft beneath my calloused finger, and she goes very still at my touch.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the garage fades away. There's just Sandra, with her warm brown eyes and full lips that part slightly in surprise. My thumb lingers on her cheek longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheekbone.
"You had grease," I explain, voice rougher than I intended.
"Thanks," she whispers, not breaking eye contact.
The moment stretches, tension crackling between us like a live wire. I should step back. I should focus on the car. I should remember that she's a customer, temporary in town, and definitely not someone I should be thinking about the way I currently am.
Instead, I lean slightly closer, drawn by something I can't explain.
The sharp ring of the phone shatters the moment. I jerk back, clearing my throat and turning away to answer it.
"Grizzle & Grind," I bark into the receiver, annoyed at the interruption and simultaneously grateful for it.
It's a parts supplier confirming an order for another customer. The conversation is brief, but by the time I hang up, the moment has passed. Sandra is examining the cylinder head, seemingly absorbed in the mechanics.
"Hungry?" I ask, checking my watch. It's past one, and we've been working straight through the morning.
She looks up, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Starving, actually. Is there somewhere nearby we could grab lunch?"
"The diner's across the street," I suggest. "Food's decent. Nothing fancy."
"Sounds perfect." She glances down at her clothes, now spotted with grease and grime. "Though I'm not exactly dressed for public."
"It's a mechanic's diner. No one will notice." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. "Besides, a little dirt just shows you've been working."
Her smile is bright enough to light up the whole garage. "In that case, lead the way. I've earned my lunch today."
As we head across the street, I’m hyperaware of her presence beside me. This woman is getting under my skin faster than anyone has in years. She's smart, determined, not afraid to get her hands dirty, and she looks at engines with genuine curiosity instead of blank incomprehension.
And the way she stood her ground when I tried to intimidate her? I can count on one hand the people in town who've done that.
Dangerous territory, Torres. She's a customer. Temporary. Passing through.
But as she laughs at something I say, her whole face lighting up with genuine amusement, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, temporary doesn't have to mean forgettable.
I hold the diner door open for her, and she brushes past close enough that I catch that vanilla scent again. My body responds instantly, a surge of want that I ruthlessly suppress.
Control.I've built my life on it. My business. My reputation. I don't lose it over a pretty face and a quick mind.
