I clench my jaw. No one talks to me like this in my own garage. "Lady, there are three other mechanics in a fifty-mile radius, and none of them know how to handle a classic Mustang like this. You want it fixed right, you play by my rules."
"Or what?" Those full lips curve into a challenging smile that does things to my insides I don't want to acknowledge. "You'll send me away? Then you don't get paid. Seems like a lose-lose to me."
I glare at her, but she meets my gaze without flinching. Most people in town are intimidated by me. They see the tattoos, thescowl, the reputation I've built as the grumpy mechanic who doesn't take shit from anyone, and they fall in line.
Not Sandra Hemmings. She stares back at me like she's daring me to back down.
And damn it all to hell, I respect her for it.
"Fine," I growl. "You can ask your questions. But if you start telling me how to do my job, all bets are off."
She smiles, a bright, victorious grin that transforms her whole face. "Deal. Now, when can I get an estimate?"
I glance at the wall clock. "Come back tomorrow morning. I'll have a breakdown of what needs to be done and how much it's going to hurt your wallet."
"I'll be here at nine." She steps back, suddenly looking uncertain. "Um, is there somewhere I can stay in town? I wasn't planning on being stranded."
"The Mountain Lodge has rooms. It's about a half mile that way." I point down Main Street. "Or there's Harper's Inn at the edge of town."
She glances at her car, then back to me. "I don't suppose you could give me a ride? Since my car is currently unusable."
Saying ‘no’ is my first instinct. I don't do favors for strangers. I don't play taxi driver. I don't go out of my way to be helpful.
But something about those big brown eyes behind those ridiculous glasses makes me nod before I can stop myself.
"Let me grab my keys." I turn toward the office, calling over my shoulder, "And bring whatever you need from the car. It's going to be here a while."
As I retrieve my jacket and keys from the hook by my office door, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I'm scowling, as usual, but there's something else there too. A spark of interest I haven't felt in a long time.
This woman is trouble. I can feel it in my bones. The kind of trouble that disrupts the careful order I've built in my life.The kind that asks questions I don't want to answer and pushes boundaries I've established for good reasons.
Yet as I watch her gather her things from the Mustang, I can't help but feel a surge of anticipation. This is going to be interesting, at the very least.
And if there's one thing Diesel Torres has never backed down from, it's a challenge.
CHAPTER TWO
SANDRA
Istare out the passenger window of Diesel Torres's pickup truck, trying not to inhale too deeply. Masculine scents fill the cab—motor oil, pine, and something else I can’t quite place.Traitor body.The last thing I need right now is an attraction to the grumpiest mechanic in the Pacific Northwest.
"You can drop me at The Mountain Lodge," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since we left his garage. "I appreciate the ride."
Diesel grunts in response, those large hands gripping the steering wheel. I can't help noticing the tattoos that cover his forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel shirt. Intricate designs in black and blue that I'm suddenly curious to trace with my fingertips.
"So," I try again, "how long have you owned Grizzle & Grind?"
"Five years." His eyes remain fixed on the road.
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn't.
"Wow. A real chatterbox," I mutter.
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he's fighting a smile. "You always this persistent?"
"You always this grumpy?" I shoot back.
That gets me a full glance, those dark eyes sliding over to me before returning to the road. "Yes."
