My eyebrows shoot up. Most people in town know better than to take that tone with me. I'm about to tell her to take her attitude and her broken-down car elsewhere when she sighs, shoulders slumping.
"I'm sorry. That was rude." She pushes her glasses up her nose. "It's been a long day, and this car has been nothing but trouble since I bought it."
Something about the genuine frustration in her voice softens my irritation. "Pop the hood."
She complies, and I move to inspect the engine. The moment the hood rises, I want to groan. It's even worse than I expected. The engine's been rebuilt by someone who watched too many DIY YouTube videos and not enough actual training.
"When did you buy this?" I ask, poking at a hose that's secured with what looks like electrical tape and a prayer.
"Three months ago from a dealer in Seattle." She steps beside me, close enough that I catch the scent of vanilla and something floral. "It was supposed to be fully restored. I paid a premium for it."
I snort. "You got scammed. This isn't a restoration. It's a paint job slapped over a disaster."
Her face falls, genuine disappointment flooding her features. Something twists in my chest.
"Can you fix it?"
There's a hopeful note in her voice that makes me want to say yes, even though the rational part of my brain is screaming that this car needs weeks of work. "Depends. What's your name?" I wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving dark smudges.
"Sandra. Sandra Hemmings." She offers her hand like we're at a business meeting instead of standing in my dirty garage parking lot.
I stare at her outstretched hand for a moment before taking it in mine. Her skin is soft against my callused palm. "Diesel Torres. I own the place."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Torres." There's a hint of sass in her tone that makes my lips twitch.
"Diesel." I release her hand. "Mr. Torres was my father."
"Diesel, then." The way she says my name sends an unexpected jolt through me. "So, about my car? Can you fix it?"
I look back at the engine, mentally calculating the work involved. "I can fix anything. Question is whether it's worth fixing."
Her spine straightens. "What does that mean?"
"It means this is going to be expensive. Might be cheaper to cut your losses and buy something else."
"No." The firmness in her voice surprises me. "This car is important. I need it fixed."
I study her face, trying to figure out why anyone would be so attached to this rolling disaster. "Important how?"
She hesitates, and I can see the internal debate play out across her expressive face. Finally, she sighs.
"It was my grandfather's. Or at least, the same model and year. He used to have one just like it when I was a kid. He'd take me for ice cream every Sunday." Her voice softens with the memory. "He died last year, and I thought... well, I thought having this car would be like keeping a piece of him with me."
Fuck. Now I can't tell her to junk it.
"I'll need to do a full diagnostic," I say, closing the hood. "It'll take time. And parts for these classics aren't cheap."
"Money isn't an issue." She straightens her shoulders. "Just tell me what needs to be done."
I narrow my eyes. "You're not from around here."
It's not a question, but she answers anyway. "No. I'm from Chicago originally. I'm in town for..." She pauses. "For personal reasons."
My bullshit detector pings. There's more to that story, but it's not my business. As long as her credit card clears, I don't care why she's in Crimson Hollow.
"I can start tomorrow," I tell her. "But I need you to understand something." I step closer, using my height to emphasize my point. Most people back up when I do this. She doesn't budge. "In my garage, I make the decisions. If I say something needs replacing, it gets replaced. I don't cut corners, I don't use aftermarket parts on classics, and I don't take suggestions from customers who don't know a timing belt from a fan belt. Got it?"
Her chin tilts up defiantly. "I'm the customer, and I'm paying you for a service. That means I get to ask questions and understand what's happening with my car."
