Page 46 of Their Christmas Miracle

II

Four-Hundred-Eighty

Blake

It was the shout that drew Blake from his office. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to abandon the slew of paperback he had to hack through every Friday — especially on Christmas Eve, but that shout did a damn fine job of it.

It was high-pitched, feminine, and as entitled as fuck.

He charged down the metal stairs leading into his workshop, his heavy boots making them rattle and clang in a cacophony of noise that almost drowned out the woman’s next yell.

“I never authorized this! Who gave you permission to—?”

“Is there a problem here?” Blake asked.

The woman — blond hair twisted into a knot that had begun to unravel slightly — spun to face him, blue eyes blazing. She stood beside a Mercedes Benz S-Class that had come in for a full service less than a week ago. She looked about to let loose on him, but then she pushed back her shoulders, drew a deep breath that did impressive things to her breasts, and slowly let out a long exhale.

“Are you the manager?” Her voice shook with the effort of civility.

“No.” Blake glanced past her at Fred — who’s pale face was a clear testament to the woman’s anger — and lifted his eyebrows. Fred backed away, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle as he sauntered to the far side of the wide workshop. Like him, Fred didn’t really have anywhere to be tonight. He’d split up with his old lady a couple months back, and it was her turn with the kids this Christmas. From what Blake could gather, Fred’s evening would consist of some takeout, a six pack of beer, and anything that wasn’t Christmas related playing on the box.

Sounded a lot like his evening.

“Well, I need to speak with the manager. Immediately.” Her voice had almost risen back to a shout.

“I’m the owner, so I guess I’ll have to do,” Blake said. He gestured toward the Merc. “What’s the issue here?”

“The issue?” The woman blinked at him as if, for a moment, she’d forgotten what the issue was. Her gaze fell to his chest and then flickered to his arms and back to his eyes an instant later.

Blake looked down at himself. Had he gotten coffee on his—

Right. No coffee — just grease. Lots and lots of grease.

It didn’t help wearing clean clothes to the workshop. It didn’t help cleaning the workshop. There was always a car to slide under, always a leaky gasket to drip oil on him as he pointed out a tricky issue to one of the junior mechanics on staff. So he wore one of two vests — both used to be white, neither of them were anymore — and his pair of fraying, torn jeans. There were overalls, but… he hated the things with a passion he usually reserved for restoring his classics at the dead of night.

This grease monkey was probably not what she expected the owner of anywhere to look like, even if it was a repair shop.

Shelooked like someone had dunked her in the river. Blake glanced past her — snow sifted down like confetti outside the garage’s open door. Had she been walking through the snow to have gotten so wet?

“The issue,” the woman said, tugging absently at the damp lapel of her beige power suit, “is that there were unauthorized repairs carried out on my car. I was expecting a substantially lower bill.” Her voice dropped at ‘substantially’ and Blake saw what he thought might have been the precursor to tears.

Dear God, don’t let the broad start crying. The last thing he needed on a Christmas Eve — takeout and warm beer be damned — was a crying customer. He didn’t get them often — he did good work — but he did get them. Especially when it turned out that the ‘clank’ they kept hearing was something more serious than a damaged CV joint. Jesus, and it was almost closing time.

Blake turned his wrist, glancing down at his watch.

“We’re closed, lady.” Blake’s eyes darted up, catching Fred trying to sneak into the back. “We’re closed, Fred!” It was probably a little harsher than the poor mechanic needed, but it did the job. Fred would stay in the garage with Blake some nights, working on the odd job until Blake couldn’t see straight from exhaustion and booted him out so he could get some sleep.

Fred threw him a dramatic shrug and scampered into the locker room, leaving Blake and the woman alone.

Her foot began to tap.

Blake stared down at it, irritation slowly blooming inside him. She wore beige heels — slightly muddy — that almost perfectly matched her wet, beige suit. The only splash of color was a pink ruffled shirt that peeked out between her colorless lapels.

That, and her eyes. A luminous, sapphire blue. Her makeup had smudged, and he had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with a walk in the snow.

“Look, lady—”

“Elle,” she cut in with a sniff.

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