He shows me the ancient appointment book. Actual paper, with a pen attached by a string, and explains the system, which is basically "write down name, number, and what they need."
"Simple enough?" he asks.
"Very."
"Great. I'll be in the back if you need me."
He disappears into the garage, and I settle into the chair behind the front desk.
Chapter 6 - Casey
I'm elbow-deep in the engine of Mrs. Henderson's Buick, something's wrong with the alternator, probably, when I realize I made a tactical error.
Morgan is out front. Working the desk. Being helpful and sweet and completely unaware that she's sitting in the exact spot where every single customer who walks through that door is going to see her and immediately jump to conclusions.
Not that I care what people think.
Except I do, a little, because this is a small town and I have a business to run and a daughter to protect, and the last thing I need is people deciding I'm dating someone when I'm very much not.
Even if she is beautiful and kind and surprisingly good with Riley.
Even if I noticed the way her sleep shorts rode up on her thighs this morning before she pulled on that hoodie.
Even if I've thought about her smile more times in the past twelve hours than is strictly appropriate for someone who's just helping a stranger.
I yank a little too hard on a bolt and skin my knuckles on the edge of the engine block.
"Fuck," I mutter, shaking out my hand.
Focus. I need to focus.
The alternator is definitely shot. I can replace it with a rebuilt one, save Mrs. Henderson some money. She's on a fixed income and the Buick is older than Riley, but it runs well enough that it's worth maintaining.
I'm making notes on the work order when I hear the bell over the door chime.
Then Morgan's voice, warm and professional: "Good morning! Welcome to Casey's Automotive."
I can't hear the response, but I hear Morgan again: "He's in the garage. Let me get him for you."
Footsteps, and then she appears in the doorway.
"Someone's here to see you. Frank?"
Frank. Owns the hardware store, drives a Ford pickup that's been making a weird rattling noise for the past month.
"Thanks. Tell him I'll be right there."
She nods and disappears, and I wipe my hands on a rag that's already so dirty it's pointless before heading out front. Frank’s standing by the desk, looking at Morgan with curiosity.
"Casey!" he says when he sees me, but his eyes dart back to Morgan. "Didn't know you hired someone."
"Temporary help," I say easily. "Morgan, this is Frank. Frank, Morgan Fletcher."
"Pleasure," he says, extending a hand.
Morgan shakes it, smiling politely, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
"So," Frank says, turning back to me. "That rattling noise I mentioned? It's getting worse."
