Just a customer. A very attractive, very intense customer who organizes clipboards for fun and probably color-codes her underwear drawer.
“Ben.” She’s got her phone in one hand, coffee cup in the other, and that look on her face that says she’s already mentally three tasks ahead of this conversation. “I need you to look at my car.”
“The one making that noise?” I lean against Mrs. Henderson’s Buick. “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that coming.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Probably. What’s it doing?”
“Making a noise.” She’s already typing something on her phone, her fingers red from the cold. “And this morning it sort of... wheezed. Then there was steam.”
I pop the hood. The cold makes the steam billow out even more dramatically.
“And you just kept driving it?”
“I’ve been busy.” Her voice has that defensive edge. “Can you fix it or should I take it somewhere else?”
“Relax. I can fix it.” I check the radiator hose. Yeah, there’s the problem. “Needs a new hose and probably a coolant flush. Should’ve come in when you first heard the noise, though.”
“I was going to.”
“Sure you were.” I glance at her over the hood. She’s shivering slightly, though she’s trying to hide it. “Right after you finished saving the world?”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s almost a smile there. “Something like that.”
“I can have it done by Thursday.” I slam the hood. “Couple hours for the hose, maybe three if I need to order parts.”
“Thursday?” Her voice goes up. “Ben, I need it today. I have vendor meetings?—”
“And I have Mrs. Henderson’s Buick, which is held together by hope and duct tape.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Thursday’s the best I can do. But I’ll get you sorted.”
Her phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. She glances at the screen and her scent spikes—more citrus, the lavender disappearing entirely. Whatever those texts say, they’re not good news.
“Fine.” She’s already typing a response, fingers moving fast despite the cold. “Thursday. But I need it early. I have a site visit at nine.”
“I’ll have it ready by eight.” I head back toward Mrs. Henderson’s Buick. “You need a ride somewhere? I can call?—”
“Actually.” She straightens up, and I recognize that look. That’s her I’m-about-to-recruit-you-for-something look. “Since I have you here, I wanted to ask about the Valentine’s fundraiser.”
Oh no.
“The bachelor auction specifically.”
Abort. Abort.
“I still need six more volunteers, and I thought?—”
I grab my truck keys from the workbench and toss them to her. She catches them on reflex, blinking in surprise.
“Take my truck,” I say, already moving toward the radio on the far wall. “It’s the blue Ford out front. Bring it back when you pick up your car Thursday.”
“Ben, I just need to know if?—”
I crank the radio. Loud. Some classic rock station, doesn’t matter what song.
“CAN’T HEAR YOU!” I shout over the music, giving her a cheerful wave. “TERRIBLE RECEPTION IN HERE! ACOUSTICS, YOU KNOW!”
“Ben Wilson, I am not?—”
