Page 17 of The Woman in the Garage

“Here,” Ren snarled, shoving the papers toward me, but not before wrinkling it all up first.

I ignored his attitude as I glanced at the papers.

“Five hundred?” I asked, brows pinching. “For an oil change?”

There was a slight pause, long enough to make me glance up at him. “Topped fluids and checked everything over too,” he explained.

“Why isn’t that in the notes then?” I asked.

“Just fucking write it in there then, fuck,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me?” I asked, ignoring the way my belly clenched at needing to confront him.

“The fuck you always on my ass for? You—“

“Yo,” another voice called, making my spine straighten. Even just that one syllable, and I recognized him.

Santo.

No one else in the world had a voice like his.

“Who the fuck talks to their boss like that?” he asked, moving closer.

“Who the fuck are you, ass—“ Ren started.

“Ren,” Tom, one of the older mechanics, barked. “Don’t,” he added, his voice holding a lot of warning that I didn’t understand.

Ren’s face was twisted with rage, but he listened to Tom.

“What-the-fuck-ever,” he said under his breath as he stalked away.

“Santo,” I said, offering him a smile. “I totally forgot we were meeting,” I said, lying through my teeth. I’d been counting down the days, actually. I’d put on my favorite blue and white sundress. I’d spent a little extra time on my makeup.

Sure, our last interaction had been nothing but casual. There were no signs that the tingle I felt teasing across my nerve endings was reciprocated. And, I mean, why would they be? The man was a god carved from gorgeous, golden stone.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to look my best when I saw him.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.

“No, not at all. Just… some questions about billing,” I said, shrugging it off. “Want to come into the office? It’s not quite the mess it was the last time you were here.”

In fact, I’d been staying late each night to make sure I got the place cleaned out and scrubbed. I’d even brought in one of the many chairs from Uncle Phil’s basement, so Santo had a place to sit.

I turned and closed the door, hearing the music and clanking sounds muffle immediately.

“You got a computer,” he said, waving toward my laptop.

“It finally showed up from Washington,” I said. “I’d been afraid it was lost in the mail. But I got a couple boxes yesterday.”They were mostly sentimental items that I’d collected over the years. I’d sold off or donated everything I couldn’t fit in my luggage for the plane. The money from the sales had been just enough to buy my lemon of a hatchback that was already almost costing me as much in repairs as it cost to buy.

“You learning to spreadsheet?” he asked, undoing his top button as he sat down.

“Trying,” I said, sitting down too, putting the paper into the top drawer of the desk. Beneath it was paperwork for other cars, ones that were either criminallyundercharged for their work or way overcharged.

I was still trying to figure all that out without having to ask the guys who’d given me the paperwork.

None of them, I’d noted, belonged to David.

As far as I could tell, all of his work and charges were appropriate.

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