Page 5 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

That stops me. I look at her.

“At the Trading Post,” she says. “You walk through every morning. Past me, into Lea’s, back out with your coffee. You don’t talk to anyone, and you leave.”

I don’t know what to do with the fact that she’s noticed me. I go to Lea’s every morning because the coffee is good and the walk from the shop clears my head. Lea never makes small talk unless you start it first. I haven’t considered that anyone is watching.

“I wasn’t stalking you,” she adds. “I hand out coupons near the entrance. I see everyone who walks through.”

“Right.”

“You never take a coupon.”

“I don’t need outdoor gear.”

“Everyone needs outdoor gear. You live in the mountains.”

“I live in this shop.”

She laughs. That same laugh from the phone. Open and unguarded and completely out of proportion to what I’ve said, which isn’t funny.

I’m serious. I practically do live in this shop. The fire district calls me when apparatus needs work, half the trucks on Prospect Street end up in my bay at some point, and the ski patrol has me on speed dial for snowmobile repairs from November through April.

But she laughs, and my stupid pulse does the thing again, and I turn back to the e-bike so she won’t see whatever is happening on my face.

“I’ll order the part today,” I say. “Should be here by Thursday. I’ll give you a call when it’s ready.”

“Thursday. I’ll stop by Thursday.”

“I said I’d call.”

“And I said I’d stop by.” She picks up her coupons from my workbench where she set them down. When did she set them down? “Thanks, Beck. For looking at it. I know we’re not technically your customer.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a little. You could’ve told me to call the right number.”

She’s right about that. I could’ve told her on the phone yesterday that she had the wrong shop and hung up and gone back to the Silverado’s oil pan and never thought about her voice again.

I hadn’t done that.

“Thursday,” I say.

She grins at me, wide and easy and completely unfair, and walks out of my shop with her stack of coupons and her half-finished ponytail and the smell of coffee and whatever that tropical thing is that I’m definitely not going to think about.

The door scrapes shut behind her.

I stand there, hands covered in grease, staring at the dead e-bike on my bench, and I know two things with absolute certainty. The first is that the controller board is going to take two days to ship, and they’re going to be the longest two days of my life.

The second is that I’m in trouble.

3

CALLIE

Itell myself I’m just checking on the bike.

I have a perfectly good reason to go back to Beck’s shop. Several, actually. It’s Thursday. He said the part would be in by Thursday. Kendall needs the rental unit back for the weekend. Two-minute walk from the Trading Post. Totally logical.

This is professional. This is responsible. This is me being a good employee.