But I've been handling phones and customers and the chaos of this place for weeks now. I've learned the language of auto repair. I know these invoices inside and out. I'm not the same girl who showed up here in a wedding dress anymore.
So I don't flinch. Don't go looking for rescue. Just straighten in my chair and wait for it.
"This is highway robbery!" He slams the invoice on my desk hard enough that my coffee cup jumps, liquid sloshing. "You're charging me for work you didn't even do!"
I glance at the invoice without touching it, keeping my expression neutral. Mr. Henderson. The F-150 from last week. Alternator replacement.
"Sir, I can absolutely help you with this." My voice comes out calm. Professional. The customer service voice I've been perfecting that sounds pleasant but brooks exactly zero bullshit. "Let me pull up your file."
"I don't need a file!" His face is going from red to purple, impressive really, like watching a blood pressure crisis in real time. "I need my money back! This is fraud! I'm calling the Better Business Bureau! I'm calling the police! I'm—"
"Mr. Smith." I interrupt, still calm, opening the file on the computer. "I understand you're frustrated. Let's take a look at what we did."
Behind him, I hear movement. Holt's emerged from the garage, wrench still in hand, eyes on the situation. Ready to intervene if needed. But I catch his eye, shake my head slightly.
I've got this.
His eyebrows lift but he stays back. Watching. Trusting me.
"I see here we replaced your alternator, which was completely shot." I scan the notes, pull up the photos we took. "We also had to replace the serpentine belt because it was worn through and would've failed within a week."
"I didn't authorize a belt replacement!" He's leaning over my desk now, trying to intimidate with proximity and volume.
I don't lean back. Don't give him the satisfaction. Just meet his eyes with patient professionalism that says I deal with your type every day and you're not special.
"Actually, you did. Holt called you last Tuesday at two forty-seven PM." I turn the monitor so he can see. "Quote: 'Customer authorizes belt replacement after explaining safety concern. Confirmed price of eighty-five dollars for part and labor.' That's Holt's note. Timestamp. Your phone number."
His mouth opens. Closes. He's deflating in real time as reality hits that he's wrong and I've got documentation and there's no wiggle room here.
"I also have the call log if you'd like to verify—"
"No, I..." He's backpedaling now, bluster fading like air from a balloon. "I mean, he might've mentioned it. I just didn't realize it would cost—"
"The total came to four hundred and thirty-two dollars." I pull up the breakdown, keep my voice measured. "Two hundred for the alternator, eighty-five for the belt, rest is labor at our standard rate of seventy-five per hour. Industry standard."
I grab the comparison sheet we keep for exactly this reason, slide it across the desk. "Here's what other shops in the area charge. We're actually on the lower end."
He's looking at the numbers now. I can see him doing the math, realizing he's got no ground to stand on, that he camein here ready for a fight and walked into a wall of competent record-keeping instead.
"Look, I get it." I soften my voice slightly, add some empathy back in now that he's calmed down. "Car repairs are expensive. Nobody likes paying for them. But we don't charge for work without authorization. We take photos. We call for approval. We document everything specifically so there's no confusion later."
His shoulders slump. "Yeah. Okay. I guess... I guess that's fair."
"We just want to make sure you're taken care of, Mr. Smith. That your truck's safe and running well." I close out his file, give him my best customer service smile. "If you have any other questions about the work we did, Holt's right here and happy to walk you through it. Otherwise, you're all set."
He takes the invoice, folds it carefully, puts it in his wallet. Mutters something that might be an apology. Leaves without making eye contact, the bell chiming his exit.
Silence falls.
Then Holt's voice from behind me: "That was impressive."
I spin in my chair. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that almost-smile on his face that means he's genuinely pleased but won't say it directly because feelings are hard.
Pride floods through me, warm and unexpected and so fucking satisfying it makes my skin tingle. "I know."
"No, seriously." He pushes off the doorframe, walks closer. "You de-escalated that guy like a pro. I was ready to throw him out and you just... handled it."
"It's not that hard. Just know your shit and don't take the bait." But I'm smiling now too, can't help it, face hurting fromhow wide this grin is. "Besides, we had all the documentation. He couldn't argue with facts."
