Page 3 of Winter Wish

“Fuckers sabotaged our damned project while we were on lunch.”

Ezra and Aaron had just finished interviewing one of their potential candidates and were walking toward the last two booths on their list when the angry outburst reached them from fifty feet away. Ezra shared a glance with Aaron and quickened his pace.

“You’ve blown a fuse,” a sultry Southern voice countered, calm and firm, against the loud accusation.

“I highly doubt it, babe. Why don’t you march your sweet ass back to your booth and do what you were brought here to do? Let the big boys handle this.” A chorus of male chuckles and catcalls followed.

“Uh-oh,” Ezra was now close enough to catch one of the bystanders whispering.

“Let me guess,” the woman’s voice carried a sugary edge, “one of you big boys decided to use the light-bar as a Jedi lightsaber and broke it. Am I right?” Groans and reluctant chuckles rippled through the group gathered around her, but the woman wasn’t done.

“Then,” she continued, voice dripping with saccharine sarcasm, “knowing the benefactors would only allow one light-bar per team, you tried to replace it with a previous model—probably from some shady discount website—thinking no one would be the wiser. Except you didn’t do your research. You didn’t read the attached literature or any related articles, did you?”

Ezra and Aaron slowed as the woman’s words rang out, laced with a quiet authority.

“The previous model, which has almost identical specs to the one we were issued, was recalled due to a design flaw—you guessed it—that causes blown fuses. How’s that for ‘doing what I was brought here to do’?”

There were curses and begrudging grunts of approval as part of the group shuffled off down the row, clearly trying to escape the fallout. As Ezra drew closer, he could see the project in question. The remaining team members belonged to one of the schools he and Aaron were most interested in interviewing.

Three of the boys stood red-faced, glaring at the retreating figures who’d obviously botched the project.

“Bitch doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” the loudmouth grumbled to his teammates, his tone thick with frustration and bitterness.

Ezra was willing to bet the woman being bad-mouthed did know what she was talking about. In fact, he’d read the same article almost a year ago. He shared another glance with Aaron and mentally crossed these guys off his list. There was no way Curtis Garage would take on another liar or a mechanic who practiced shoddy workmanship.

That left one group of candidates to talk to, but he wasn’t feeling too hopeful. This trade school was based in Orlando, Florida, and sure, students could attend from other states, but the odds of finding someone willing to leave Florida for rural Montana were slim. Probably like finding a '71 Hemi Cuda convertible in mint condition.

Ezra walked around the final team’s project, examining the workmanship and observing while Aaron struck up a conversation.

“Cool idea, man. Can it really drive on both land and water?” Aaron asked a student sporting James Dean hair and Buddy Holly glasses. The kid’s forearms were covered in tattoos, on display beneath the short sleeves of his garage-style shirt. Ezra had noticed earlier in the day that students from this school all rocked a ’50s retro grease-monkey vibe to match the cherry-red 1953 Cadillac ambulance they’d restored and customized as their project.

“It sure can,” the kid responded enthusiastically. “I was just bringing up the video and slideshow now if you want to see it in action.”

Ezra, who had watched part of the video earlier, stepped closer to take another look.

“How’d you come up with the idea for an amphibious rescue vehicle?”

The kid shook his head. “I’d love to claim the idea, man, but then I’d be lying—and probably get my ass… uh, butt kicked.” He lowered his voice, scrunched his shoulders, and glanced behind him like he was about to get throttled, though the playful smirk on his face gave him away.

“Tate is the real mastermind behind this beauty. But once we were all on board—no pun intended—we put in the hours to make it a reality.”

Aaron laughed along with the kid as he eagerly described the build. He led Aaron around the car, pointing out features and recounting stories about the process. Ezra’s lips twitched with faint amusement. He was about to follow, but something in the slideshow caught his attention, and he stared hard, waiting for another glimpse.

When Aaron returned to the front of the vehicle, he was still talking details, now with a small entourage in tow. It was subtle, but Ezra could see his brother’s elation shining through.

“Hey, Ezra, got a minute? I’d like you to meet Tate.”

Ezra reluctantly pulled his focus from the images sliding across the computer screen.

Oh, hell no. His brow furrowed, and his lip curled in distaste. He knew exactly what Aaron was up to. The reality TV executives had made it clear—they wanted at least one woman on the team, “the prettier, the better,” they’d said, their words still grating on him. And this one? She was stunning.

But as gorgeous as she was, Ezra wasn’t about to let another woman disrupt morale or stir up drama with his crew—or, worse, their customers.

Aaron ignored the sharp look Ezra sent him and pressed on, introducing the woman with borderline obnoxious enthusiasm. Ezra didn’t need a psychic to know his brother was about to insist on hiring her, all “for the good of the show.” He also didn’t need one to know that this woman was going to be trouble.

“Jorie Tate, meet my brother Ezra, co-owner of Curtis Full-Service Garage & Customs.”

Fuck.

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