"Then why would I argue?" She shrugs. "You're the expert. I'm paying for your expertise. Now, account details?"
I recite the shop's account information, still slightly bewildered by her easy acceptance. Most people don't trust mechanics, assuming we're all out to scam them. Her trust is... refreshing.
"Done," she says after tapping at her phone. "Two thousand dollars transferred. Should hit your account within the hour."
"Thanks," I say, slightly awkward. "I'll get started on ordering parts today."
"Great." She takes a sip of her coffee. "So, what happens now?"
"Now I tear down the engine to see what else we're dealing with."
"Can I watch?"
The question catches me off guard. "Watch me disassemble an engine?"
"Yes." She meets my gaze directly. "I want to learn. Grandpa Joe always said a car owner should understand the basics of how their vehicle works."
"It's going to take hours. Not exactly riveting entertainment."
"I've got time." She gestures around the empty reception area. "Not like I have anywhere to be until my car's fixed."
I consider refusing. I don't like people hovering while I work. But there's something about her eager expression that makes me nod despite myself.
"Fine. But stay out of my way. And if I tell you to step back, you step back immediately. Safety first."
"Yes, sir," she says with a mock salute that should annoy me but somehow doesn't.
"Let me finish my coffee first," I grunt, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation.
She smiles, triumphant, and hops onto one of the stools by the counter. "So, how long have you been working on cars?"
"Since I was a kid." I take a long sip of coffee. "My dad owned a garage in Vancouver. I grew up with grease under my fingernails."
"Is that where you learned to be so charming?"
I glance up to find her eyes dancing with mischief. "If by 'charming' you mean 'not putting up with bullshit,' then yes."
"You know, most businesses try to make their customers feel welcome." She tilts her head. "Did you skip that chapter in Business 101?"
"I must have." I drain my coffee. "Strange, I still have more customers than I can handle."
"Because you're good at what you do," she says simply. "Quality speaks for itself."
The straightforward compliment catches me off guard. I'm used to being respected in town, but genuine appreciation without qualifiers about my personality is rare.
"Ready?" I ask, tossing my empty cup in the trash.
She follows me to the bay where her Mustang sits with its hood up, looking like a patient prepped for surgery. I grab my tools and dive in, explaining each step as I go. To my surprise, she asks intelligent questions, actually listening to my answers instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.
"So that's the carburetor," she says, pointing. "And it does what again?"
"Mixes air and fuel in the right ratio before it goes into the combustion chamber." I unhook the air filter to expose the component. "See these jets? They control the flow. Yours are full of gunk. No wonder it's running rough."
She leans in for a closer look, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me. She smells good, like vanilla and something citrusy. Clean and feminine.
"And these wires here?" She points at the distributor cap.
"Ignition system. Each one connects to a spark plug." I remove the cap to show her. "These fire in a specific sequence to ignite the fuel mixture. Timing has to be perfect, or the engine runs like shit."
