Page 29 of Tuned To Break
As we all gather around the table to eat, I think about what they’ve said. They’re right—Stella isn’t just some casual attraction or temporary distraction. The way she felt in my arms last night, the way she responded to my touch, the way she’s thrown herself into fixing our chaotic workshop—she’s everything I didn’t know I was looking for. We may have started as a bar hook-up, but this is more than that.
“So what’s the plan then?” Chase asks around a mouthful of perfectly cooked steak.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit, cutting into my own steak and watching the juices run. “But I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, you better figure it out soon,” Arden says, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Because something tells me a woman like that won’t wait around forever for you to make up your mind.”
As the afternoon winds down and the sun starts to set over Arden’s perfect backyard, I realise the truth that’s been staring me in the face all along. I’ve known what I wanted from the moment I saw her in that green mask at Grumpy’s.
The question isn’t what I want—it’s how do I convince her to change her mind about us?
The answer, I understand now as I watch the golden light fade across the horizon, lies in patience, persistence, andproving that some things are worth the risk. Stella’s worth the risk. We’re worth the risk.
I just need to show her that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STELLA
“Double shot flat white, extra hot, no sugar,” I call out as I place the cup on the counter for one of our regulars. Monday mornings at The Enchanted Bean are always busy but today feels particularly chaotic with the post-weekend rush.
“Stella, can you grab the pastries from the back when you get a chance?” Emily asks as she works the register.
“On it,” I reply, but my phone buzzes with a text before I can move. I glance at the screen and immediately feel my blood pressure spike.
UNKNOWN
Hi Stella, just got the updated photos for my Mustang restoration. Those aren’t the right headlights we discussed. They look like modern replacements, not the vintage ones I specifically requested. This isn’t what I’m paying for. - Michael Harrison
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Fucking José. I specifically told him about the vintage headlight requirement last week, and he assured me he had it sorted.
“Everything okay?” Megan asks from the other side of the counter. She’s become a regular fixture here on Monday mornings, claiming she needs the caffeine boost before starting her nursing shifts, but I suspect she just enjoys the gossip.
“Work drama,” I mutter, already dialling the workshop number.
The phone rings three times before Chase picks up. “Doc’s Auto Restoration, Chase speaking.”
“Chase, it’s Stella. I need to speak to José. Now.”
“Uh, sure. He’s right here. Everything all right?”
“Not really. Put him on.”
There’s a brief pause, then José’s voice comes through the speaker. “Hey, Stella, what’s?—”
“Did you install the headlights on Michael Harrison’s Mustang?”
“Yeah, finished it this morning. Looks great.”
“Really? Because I just got an incredibly angry text from the client saying they’re the wrong fucking headlights.”
Silence.
“José?”
“Shit. I thought... I mean, they looked vintage to me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Did you check the part numbers against the specification sheet I gave you?”
