Page 9 of The Woman in the Garage

What was wrong with me?

I literally spent my days surrounded by men. All of them were, arguably, pretty good-looking. I never reacted like this to them.

To be fair, the men I worked with were openly hostile and talked crap behind my back. So, yeah, maybe I was just responding to an attractive guy being nice to me for a change.

He was, too.

Nice.

He even smiled when I let my mouth run away with me. Like he was charmed by me. Or, you know, that was more than likely wishful thinking.

Either way, I wasn’t exactly upset that he would be coming back in a week to talk.

About what, I had absolutely no idea.

But maybe the infernal paperwork would give me some answers.

“Why the hell didn’t you have a computer?” I grumbled at the empty room once Santo Grassi—and his sexy voice, gorgeous face, and delicious cologne—was gone.

A computer, printer, scanner… all that stuff was necessary for running a business. Or, at least, running a streamlined one. Clearly, Uncle Phil had been managing with his old-school system. But only he knew how to organize it.

“Still can’t figure out why you left this to me,” I murmured to the urn I’d placed on the corner of the desk since I couldn’t imagine anywhere in the world Uncle Phil would want to spend eternity but in his garage.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” David asked, making me jump and turn to find him leaning in the doorway. He was sipping coffee out of my duck and bunny mug that he’d kept for himself after that failed first attempt to connect with the mechanics.

“You startled me,” I said, annoyed with how fast my heart had tripped into overdrive. “Did you need something?”

“That guy was out of here fast.”

“We, uh, rescheduled,” I said. “I’m trying to… sort all this mess out. He seemed to sense that.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Depends. How good are you at reading… whatever language this is supposed to be?” I asked, waving a piece of paper at him.

“Yeah, Phil had shit handwriting. Always had to ask him to tell us what his notes said. Can’t help you with that.”

“Can you tell me why he didn’t have a computer?”

“Phil couldn’t even figure out how to work his cell. He was never gonna figure out a computer.”

“You make it sound like they’re new inventions. They’ve been common for the past, like, forty years.”

“He still had an 8-track in his truck,” David reminded me.

“He has a VCR at home too,” I added, shaking my head. “And one of those rear-projection flat screens out of the ‘90s with a massive stand underneath it. I don’t even know how or where I can get rid of it.”

“You’re living at Phil’s place?” David asked, making my spine straighten, wondering if I’d just confessed something I shouldn’t have. Was it crossing some professional line to talk about where I lived?

“Uh, yes. At least for the time being. I moved here from Washington.”

“D.C.?”

“State.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

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