Tomorrow, I'll see him again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get another glimpse beneath that grumpy exterior.
Outside, snow has begun to fall, dusting the streets with a fresh coat of white. Christmas lights twinkle against the darkening sky, and the scent of pine and wood smoke fills the air. For the first time since arriving in Crimson Hollow, I feel something like hope stirring in my chest.
Grandpa Joe sent me here for a reason. Maybe it wasn't just about the cabin after all.
CHAPTER THREE
DIESEL
The whine of the diagnostic machine fills the garage as I hook it up to Sandra's Mustang. Nine twenty-eight in the morning and she's already texted twice asking if she can come early. Eager doesn't begin to cover it.
"This car is seriously fucked," Marcus whistles, peering under the chassis. "Someone did a number on the transmission. And look at these brake lines. Jesus."
"Language," I mutter, though I've been thinking the same thing since I popped the hood. This car is beyond a rush restoration job. It's a death trap with a pretty paint job.
"You're one to talk about language," Marcus snorts. "Just yesterday you called Mr. Parker's Subaru a fucking disgrace to engineering."
I glare at him until he ducks his head back under the car. The kid's not wrong, but I'm the boss. I get to swear. That's how hierarchy works.
The computer beeps, drawing my attention to a list of fault codes long enough to make my wallet hurt just looking at it. Andit's not even my car. The bell over the front door jingles, and I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty on the dot.
Sandra walks in wearing tight jeans and a chunky green sweater that sets off her dark skin. Her hair's pulled back into a messy bun, exposing the elegant curve of her neck. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her.
"Morning," she calls, setting a cardboard tray with two coffee cups on the counter. "I brought caffeine as a peace offering."
"For what?" I approach, eyeing the cups suspiciously.
"For all the questions I'm about to ask." She grins, pushing one cup toward me. "Bean & Bloom's finest. Sage said you take it black with two sugars."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the fact she took the time to ask how I like my coffee. I take a sip. Perfect.
"So," she continues, leaning against the counter, "what's the verdict on my baby?"
I hesitate, unsure how to deliver the bad news. Blunt honesty is my default, but something about her hopeful expression makes me want to soften the blow.
"It's not great," I finally say, gesturing for her to follow me to the car. "The engine's running on five out of eight cylinders. Your fuel pump is shot. The transmission's grinding metal. And whoever did the wiring should be banned from touching a car ever again."
Her face falls with each item on the list. "Can it be fixed?"
"With enough time and money, anything can be fixed." I pull up the diagnostic report on my tablet. "But we're talking major work. At least three weeks, maybe a month. And the parts alone will cost north of five thousand."
She winces but doesn't look as shocked as I expected. "Labor?"
"Another three to four thousand, depending on what else we find once we start tearing things apart." I watch her carefully."Like I said yesterday, it might be more economical to look for another one."
Sandra stares at the car, something like determination hardening her features. "No. I want to fix this one. It's important to me."
I nod, respecting her decision even if I think it's financially unsound. "Your call. But I need a deposit before we start ordering parts. Two thousand should cover the initial batch."
"Not a problem." She pulls out her phone. "I can transfer it right now if you give me your account details."
This isn't how these conversations usually go. Most people balk at the cost, try to negotiate, or storm out claiming I'm trying to rip them off. Sandra's calm acceptance throws me.
"You're not even going to try to talk me down?" I ask, suspicious.
She looks up from her phone with a raised eyebrow. "Should I? Are you inflating the costs?"
"No," I say immediately. "I don't play games like that."
