Page 1 of Saved By The Mechanic

Chapter One

Ray

The smell of oil and gasoline greets me when I step into the auto shop—my auto shop. The clanging of metal against metal fills the air, echoing through the space, welcoming me to the place that’s been my home for more than a decade. A car sits on a lift with two of the seven mechanics I’ve hired working on it.

My lips twitch with satisfaction as I take in the sight, but my good mood fades when I spot a familiar red pickup parked in my workspace—a pickup that was not there when I left this morning to purchase a few supplies for the shop. There is only one person in all of Rosewood who owns a pickup painted this ugly shade of red and they aren’t someone I want to deal with today.

With an annoyed grunt, I walk into my office to drop off the supplies I bought before changing out of my good jeans and into my work coveralls. It’s tempting to hand over the red truck to one of my overeager young mechanics, but everyone seems busy. With a resigned sigh, I approach the bay.

I can already sense I’m not going to like what’s under the hood before I even pop it open. Despite the feeling, I grasp the metal hood and raise it, groaning in frustration when I see the state of the engine covered in leaked oil and another sticky substance I can’t immediately identify.

“Son of a bitch!”

I step back and glare at the offending truck, cursing the owner for being so careless with his truck only a year into owning it. What’s the use of warning car owners about the importance of taking care of their vehicles and scheduling maintenance if they never listen?

Fucking idiots.

My eyes narrow when I spot a small hose near the engine block leaking a steady stream of fluid into the engine cavity below. The acrid scent fills my nostrils when I step closer to the hood. It’s tempting to walk away from the car and tell the owner to take it somewhere else, but that would just be petty since he’s my brother. I’ll just charge him an arm and a leg to fix it to teach him a lesson. Not that it’ll work. He is a lawyer; he can afford it.

I curse again, and it must make it to the other side of the garage because a familiar voice calls out, “Boss, you okay?”

I grunt, raising my hand to signal to Ralph, one of my oldest employees, that I’m fine before shifting back to glare at the truck again. I gather the tools to start work, and I quickly forget about my irritation as my mind focuses on getting the truck back to its original state. Well, the state it was before my brother fucked it up.

“Hey boss, we’re taking a break to grab coffee and desserts from Annie’s bakery. Do you want us to bring you something back?”

I don’t look up, too focused on my work, but I grunt something about bringing me coffee and a donut as the men leave. I soon lose myself in my work, head buried under the hood of the car and hands moving deftly. I’m perhaps a little too focused because I don’t immediately realize that I have company.

I completely miss the slow clack of heels on the concrete floor signaling that someone is approaching and the sudden shift in the air when they stop by my side. I’m completely oblivious until they clear their throat. Only then do I shift my eyes from the hose I am replacing to the striking six-inch red stilettos only a couple of feet away from my worn grease-covered work boots.

I slowly follow the heels up shapely porcelain legs to a black polka dot mini dress that accentuates even more perfect skin and a body that sends blood rushing to my cock, but it’s the striking green eyes that have my heart jackhammering in my chest.

I push back from the car to get a better look at the girl who is at least a foot shorter than my six-three. For a full minute, I stare blankly at her, half convinced that the angel staring at me with her slightly mussed blond hair and wide innocent eyes is simply a figment of my imagination.

I must’ve inhaled way too many fumes over the years, and now I’ve somehow conjured a vision in my garage.

That has got to be it. At least it’s the only explanation as to why an angel would be standing before me. She can’t be real. No one can be this perfect, and yet, she’s here, her head tilted slightly to the side as she stares back at me with those pretty, forest green eyes of hers. I don’t speak, half afraid I’ll break the spell.

“Hi, I didn’t see anyone at the front when I walked in,” the angel finally speaks, pointing toward the office, and it takes a second for her words to register. My eyes follow hers, and true enough, the receptionist's desk is empty. Right, everyone just left for their morning break.

I grab the rag hanging from my back pocket and use it to wipe the grease off my fingers before turning my attentionback to the girl I am starting to realize is real. She’s not from around here, I can tell because I know everyone in Rosewood. In a small town with a population of about three thousand people, everyone knows everyone. This angel must’ve had trouble with her car and stopped in town to get it fixed. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. However, the thought of simply fixing her car and sending this angel away doesn’t feel right.

“How can I help you?” I manage to speak through the lump in my throat, sliding the rag back into my pocket without once taking my eyes off her.

“Uh, yeah. I could use your help,” she says, shuffling her feet nervously, and I wonder if I am the one causing her anxiety. I have been told that I make people nervous with my scowl and massive frame, but despite my impure thoughts, I would never do anything to harm this girl. Before I can find a way to assure her of that, she carries on.

“So, I was driving down the highway, and my car started making these weird noises, and I was afraid something was wrong with it. I think I also need new tires or something. They look really old. Oh, and I think the car’s AC is broken too.”

I raise a brow as she lists off all the things wrong with her car. Aside from the strange noises, none of the things she’s listed would come on suddenly, and it sounds like the car still runs. So, why not wait and take it to her usual mechanic?

“Show me the car,” I say, and she nods eagerly, rushing toward a black Audi A6 that looks like it was just driven off the sales lot parked in front of my bay door. One look at the car and without running even a single test, I can tell there is nothing wrong with it. The tires look new, and there isn’t so much as a scratch on the car.

I look from the girl to her car and then back at the girl and notice the nervous glint in her eyes, and for the first time, I entertain the thought that something other than my imposing figure could be the reason for her nerves.

“So, um, you can fix it, right?”

I nod, walking to the car. She unlocks it when I ask, and I slide into the driver’s seat. Everything inside looks as new as the exterior, and when I turn on the AC, a rush of cold air fills the car, so I turn it off. I climb out and walk around the car, not finding a single thing wrong with it.

Something is not right here.

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