Page 1 of Working for the Runaway Bride

CHAPTER

ONE

GRAYSON

The carburetor spread across my workbench isn’t the problem.

I’ve cleaned it twice, checked the float, adjusted the mixture screws, and inspected every passage with a flashlight. The damn thing is nearly as old as I am, but it’s in good shape. Better shape than the rest of the truck it belongs to, if I’m being honest.

Still, the engine won’t run right.

I lean over the open hood of the faded red Ford and listen to it sputter. The uneven rhythm fills my garage, echoing off concrete floors and corrugated steel walls before the engine finally gives up.

Silence settles around me.

“Yeah,” I mutter, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. “I know how you feel.”

Some days, a man can do everything right and still end up stalled. I reach inside the cab to turn off the ignition. My phone starts vibrating somewhere beneath a stack of invoices on my desk.

I let it ring.

Anyone who knows me also knows I don’t answer when I’m working. If the building is on fire, I’ll smell the smoke. Anything less can wait.

The phone stops.

Then it starts again. I straighten and stare across the garage. People who call twice in a row are either selling something or bringing trouble. Since my number is on the national do-not-call list, I’m betting on trouble.

I cross the garage, shifting an unopened box of spark plugs before finding the phone beneath a parts catalog. Carter’s name glows on the screen.

Definitely trouble.

I swipe to answer. “What happened?”

“Nice to hear your voice too, Dad.”

“If you wanted to say hello, you wouldn’t call twice.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

He sighs. “Fine. I need a favor.”

I look at the truck sitting dead in the center bay. I’ve owned Gray’s Auto Repair for twenty-six years, and in that time I’ve learned that favors usually cost more than paying customers.

Especially when those favors are for family.

“What kind of favor?”

“Molly’s car needs work.”

I glance at the clock over the office door. It’s ten thirty in the morning, and I already have three vehicles waiting outside. “Then tell her to bring it by.”

“She can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s at work.”