Page 47 of Their Christmas Miracle

“Look, ma’am.” Blake crossed his arms over his chest. “We authorize all additional repairs. We would have spoken—”

“No one called me.” Her voice was starting to shake again, those eyes beginning to brim. “My husband—” she cut off hurriedly. “I was told it would be five hundred for the service. So I brought five hundred—”

“We’ve got a card machine.” Blake turned and headed for his office. “If you’ll follow me?”

There was a murmured protest, and then the clack of heels following him. Blake glanced around as he made his way through the workshop. He caught a glimpse of Fred leaving.

Christ, this Elle chick must have reminded him too much of his ex — he hadn’t seen Fred that eager to leave in a long while.

“Hang on a sec, ma’am.” Blake detoured, ignoring the bleated, “Elle” that followed him.

He slapped his palm over the garage door’s mechanism, and watched to make sure it was closing before turning back.

He almost walked into Elle.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, sapphire eyes wide and frightened.

“You think the crooks around here take time off on Christmas? I don’t want someone looting the place while we’re busy.”

“Busy?” came the strangled protest.

Blake stared at her with a frown. “Busy paying, ma—” He cleared his throat. “Elle. Busy paying. My office is upstairs.”

He led her up the rattling stairs, glancing back in time to see her hurriedly avert her eyes from his back. Jesus, he looked rough, sure, but the chick didn’t have to stare like she’d never seen a man before.

The familiar smell of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee met him as he elbowed open his office door and stepped aside so the woman could enter. She blinked at him, seeming caught off guard by his chivalry before stepping inside and glancing around like a trapped rabbit hunting for an exit.

“Would you like a towel?”

“A… what?” Elle snapped her eyes away from the overflowing ashtray on his desk. Blake stepped in front of it, ripping a towel off the nearby basin’s rail. He’d converted the office from a kitchen, breaking down the wall between it and a small storage room when he’d moved premises a few years ago. It was still pokey, but it did the job.

“To-wel.” Blake enunciated the word carefully, in case the woman had gone deaf. “You’re dripping on my floor.”

“Probably the closest thing to a clean this place has ever seen,” the woman mumbled.

Blake narrowed his eyes at her, and she had the decency at least to blush a little. He turned and began hunting around his table.

“Last name?”

“Georgia.”

“So E. Georgia?”

There was a pause. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was hesitantly touching the edge of the towel to her hair as if scared she’d catch an infectious disease from it. It was clean, the prissy bitch.

“No… S. Georgia.”

“S?”

“My hus—ex husband.”

Blake let out a low whistle. “How’d you swing that, your ex paying for your car repairs?”

Elle hesitated, the hand holding the towel dropping to her side.

“He’s not paying for it. I am.” She grabbed her handbag and maneuvered it in front of her, drawing out a purse. “Except… I’m a little short.” Her voice became unsteady again. “I was expecting to pay five hundred.”

“Told you we’ve got a card machine.” Blake held out his hand.

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