Page 8 of Blame It on the Bikini
"She will be even prettier when I'm done with her," the man said, patting the fender of what appeared to be a 1967 Mustang convertible with faded red paint. "I'm Frank Wickham."
"Grayson Holt."
"Grayson Holt? I've heard of you. You're the new owner."
"Not exactly new. My father has owned this place for a long time, but I have recently taken over management of the property."
"So, you are the one in charge."
He wished he could say he was, but his father was still hanging on by his fingertips. Since he didn't want to get into that, he just said, "Yes. I assume you live here as well."
"I do. Josie threw me a lifeline after my wife died, and I decided to retire from my job as a corporate lawyer. I needed a place to start fresh. Moved in almost two years ago now. Changed my life."
"How's that?"
"It's hard to say exactly. But I have a simpler life now, and my friendships have more substance. I guess I found myself coming back to my roots. Last time I fixed up an old car was probably thirty years ago, when my son was seven or eight." Frank's gaze softened. "Bradley loved cars, still does, but he lives on the other side of the country now, so we don't share that hobby anymore. Truth be told, I got so busy with my job I stopped making the time to work on cars with him. I wish now I hadn't let that time go. When you get older, you realize that some choices have consequences you never imagined."
Frank's story brought back an old memory. When he'd been eight years old, he'd spent a lot of time in the garage of their Bel Air estate, watching his father's driver, Miguel, work on his father's collection of vintage cars. Miguel had been patient with him, letting him hand over tools, explaining how engines worked. Those summer afternoons had broken up some of the loneliness he'd felt growing up in a house with two very busy parents. Clearing his throat, he pushed that memory out of his head, focusing on the car in front of him.
"How long have you had this car?"
"A couple of months. I found her rusting in a barn in Temecula. The previous owner wanted to scrap her, but I saw the potential. I'm getting her ready for a car show in three weeks. It's going to be tight, but I've always liked a challenge." Frank ran his hand along the hood with obvious affection.
"Mind if I take a look?" The question surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Frank.
"Not at all."
He stepped closer, noting the rust spots, the torn convertible top, the cracked dashboard visible through the windshield. It should have looked like a money pit. Instead, he found himself oddly drawn to the classic lines, the potential hidden beneath the neglect. "My father had a car like this, same color, a year older. I think you can bring her back to life."
"Your dad worked on cars?"
"He bought vintage cars. His driver worked on them, and I used to help him." He frowned, wondering why he was sharing this with a complete stranger.
"Well, I could use an extra set of hands if you have some time." Frank picked up a wrench from the small table he'd set up nearby. "I'm replacing the carburetor today, if you want to stick around, but it will be messy work."
He should say no. He had emails to return, calls to make, spreadsheets to review. His father might have forced him into this month-long exile, but that didn't mean he had to waste time playing mechanic with a retired lawyer and a broken-down Mustang.
But something about the invitation tugged at him. Maybe it was the memory of Miguel's patient explanations, or the way Frank's eyes had saddened when he'd mentioned working on cars with his son. Or maybe it was just the strange restlessness he'd been feeling since arriving at Ocean Shores, like he was waiting for something he couldn't name.
"I could help for a while," he said, almost immediately regretting the words, but it was too late to take his offer back.
"Great, but you should probably change your clothes."
"I'll be back in a few minutes." As he headed into the building, he caught sight of Lexie's car still sitting in the parking lot, lifeless, and made a mental note to ask Frank if he had some jumper cables.
The thought of Lexie brought back their earlier conversation, where she had accused him of only measuring things by their monetary value. She wasn't completely wrong, and that bothered him, because he didn't want to be that kind of person. He didn't want to only be about money, and maybe working on Frank's car was a way to prove that to himself. Spending time doing something physical would hopefully take his mind off not only work, but also one very irritating and intriguing brunette.
Chapter Three
"Thanks again for rescuing me, Kaia," Lexie said as Kaia pulled into the Ocean Shores parking lot and turned off the engine late Saturday afternoon. "I owe you. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?"
"Actually, I have a date," Kaia said, giving her a sparkly smile.
"Really? Who's the lucky guy?"
"A doctor at the hospital where I drop off patients. He's asked me out a few times, and I finally decided to say yes."
"What took you so long?"
