“Not all millionaires are entitled,” I remind him. “I do live next to one, you know.”
“This again? You defending the Montanas? What’s wrong with you, brother?” He crouches down and runs a hand over the hood. “We can probably collect a blank check for this one.”
Mia scoffs. “We arenotgoing to price gouge based on the model of a car. What the hell are you thinking?”
“Kidding,” he says. “Sort of.” He rubs his jaw. “Fuck.Being ‘fair’ mechanics might be the death of us.”
I pat his shoulder. “On the contrary. I believe it’s what will be our saving grace.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, brother.”
“Someone want to actually work today?” Dax calls from inside the back door. “We have a line forming.”
“Coming!” I shout, then turn to Mia. “Put that in bay five, away from the others.”
She laughs. “Is it too good to sit next to the Volkswagen?”
“I don’t want that car next toanything. Treat that baby with kid gloves.”
I’m reaching for the door handle to head back inside when I hear the large warehouse door creak open behind me. Glancing back, I catch a glimpse of Kenna’s car.
Kenna. I hadn’t thought about her for the last five minutes. But that may be the only time over the past twenty-four hours I hadn’t been thinking of the mysterious brunette beauty.
I slept like shit last night knowing how close she was. Spent too many hours wondering if she was sleeping well, or if she was lying awake thinking about her situation—whatever that might be. My mind went crazy pondering all the possible scenarios. Is she running from her father even though she claims he’s a decent man? Her ex? Amelia’s dad? A scorned lover?
As I approach the counter, an entirely different scenario occurs to me. Maybe I have it all wrong. What ifshe’sthe bad guy? Has she kidnapped Amelia? Is she even Amelia’s mother?
What the hell am I thinking? Of course she is. No four-year-old is that good an actor.
I rush through helping the two customers waiting to pick up their vehicles and the one dropping off for new snow tires, then turn my attention back to the minimized browser window on the computer. The one with all the results based on my search forKenna Bennett New York City.
There are few LinkedIn hits, none of which are her. Some Instagram profiles which uncover nothing. And something from Ancestry.com. All of them are dead ends. I do a deeper dive on social media but find exactly squat. Who doesn’t have a social media presence? I tilt my head and think.
She gave me the wrong name, that’s why.
I look toward the rear of the shop, mentally berating myself over how stupid I’ve been. Why haven’t I looked through her glove box? I meant to yesterday when I collected her things, but I got distracted by the smell of her car. As soon as I opened the door, I was bombarded by the faint scent of flowers—her perfume? Shampoo perhaps? Or maybe that’s just how she smellsallthe time.
Closing my eyes, I recall the memory of falling on her out in the snow. It’s her hair. Definitely her hair. I smelled it again for those brief seconds when our eyes and bodies connected. The memory is so strong and overpowering, I can practically smell her hair right now.
I jump when my shoulder is touched. I go to close the browser, but Mia’s laugh tells me I’m too late. She’s already seen it.
“You’ve got it bad for the hot single mom,” she says with a smirk. “She’s living under your roof, but you also have to stalk her on the internet?”
“I’m not stalking her.” I get off the stool and push around some papers like I’m trying to find something important. “There’s something not right about this whole situation. Can you man the counter for me?”
“I’m on towing duty.”
“Just for a minute. I have to take a piss.”
I turn to leave, and she calls after me, “The bathroom isthatway.”
I wave her off, pull on my coat, and go out the back door. The only other person in the warehouse is Jack Pendleton, our sole non-Cruz employee. We’ve thought about hiring someone just to man the counter—which can get especially busy in the warmer months with people buying parts from the store—but we’ve never gotten around to it. Doubt we will now given our new financial circumstances.
Jack acknowledges me then goes back to working on the Volkswagen. He’s a mechanic like the rest of us, but he’s also the best collision repair technician we have. He’ll likely be the one working on the Aston Martin. We’re all good, but not as good as Jack. And the last thing we need is some entitled millionaire telling everyone we did a shitty job fixing his car.
I’m kind of surprised Mr. Moneybags didn’t insist on towing it to a place that specializes in fixing luxury vehicles like his. Then again, sometimes rich people have so many cars and so much money they don’t really give a shit. Hell, he might even sell the damn thing now that it’s no longer in pristine condition. But that’s not my problem. As long as he pays us for the repairs, I guess he can do whatever he wants to with it once he drives it off our lot.
Back to the task at hand, I approach the passenger side of Kenna’s car.Ifthat’s even her name.
