Page 1 of Beauty and the Grease
CHAPTER 1
Jenny
If you’d told me two years ago, I’d be driving a tow truck—that I own—to pick up a random man on the side of a vacant county road, I wouldn’t believe it.
“Breaker breaker niner-niner. You there, Jenny? Over.Crrsshhh.”
I grab the ancient CB radio in the truck cab. “Did you just make static sounds with your mouth?”
“Crrrsshhh. That I did, Jenny. Over.Crrrrsshhh.”
I snort out a laugh. “You said this dude was stranded on Lake Trail Road and Belmont, right? Because all I’m seeing is a whole lot of nothing.”
“That’s what he said,” Kara, my office manager at Jenny’s Auto, reports back. “Keep going on Lake Trail. You’re looking for a black Audi.”
“Thanks. Over.” I almost make the fake radio static noise myself, but I’m the adult here. I mean,Kara and I are both adults, but I’m her boss with twenty years on her, so I at least want to pretend like she respects me.
The Beast lumbers through the intersection, cresting a low hill. Ole Beasty was made to haul a load, but he feels his age some days. Then again, some days, so do I.
A shiny black sedan comes into view, all slick and clean lines, pointed into the ditch. So, not just a flat. Could be more damage.
I pass the Audi and angle the truck to the side of the road. The guy is still in his car, which is smart. I pat my cargo pants pocket. Pepper spray: check. Though I’ve never had an incident towing, often a scene involves multiple cars and maybe a cop or emergency personnel. One car on an empty road? Reality is, I’m a woman encountering the unknown out in the sticks. And some sticks are not nice sticks. Bad sticks get sprayed in the face.
All five-foot-three of me slides out of the Beast onto the rough pavement. Winters in Michigan are tough on roads. Sure enough, a pothole big as Lake Huron opens its maw just beyond the Audi. It’s probably what sent this guy and his lovely car ditch-bound.
It’s an older model A5 coupe. I’d hit the open road in that car for a little fun, though I wouldn’t give up my Ford pickup back in town.
The man hasn’t gotten out. Does he even know I’m here? Ole Beasty doesn’t exactly tiptoe. Looks like he’s moving around in the car—thankfully, he appears unhurt. He’s on his phone, turned in his seat with his back toward the driver’s side window. I’ll give it a minute since he’s likely frazzled.
My brain mentally tallies potential revenue. The tow added to repairs—if he uses us—gets me farther in the black. Business is steady, but it’s been less than a year running the shop. My number one goal is to make this business profitable.
It’s one of those moody days where the sky can’t decide if it wants to rain. A constant mist dampens my hair. Another minute rolls by and this guy is still completely ignoring me. I’m going to resemble a wet terrier in another two minutes. I tap at the driver’s side window. “Sir? Your tow is here.”
A hand moves in front of the glass.Stop, he’s gesturing, as ifI’veinterrupted him. His voice escalates to the unlucky person on the other end of the line.
Sure, he’s having a moment. I check my watch, think about lunch. Honestly, this is still better than cubicle life at the car dealership. All those years chasing paltry raises and recognition from a boys’ club who would never see me as more than a secretary. I wasn’t even a secretary. I started in customer service and graduated to running the dang office. Go figure I’d find more respect in Derby, a tiny town notknown for much (but growing!) than I ever did back at the dealership in Detroit. That going-nowhere job slowly chipped away at my spirit.
Even on a desolate road with a guy ignoring the towhe called for, I’d still rather be here.
I knock at the window again. This time. More insistently.
The window powers down and he turns his head toward me. “Do you mind? I’m in the middle of…”
His words trail off as he makes eye contact.
All sense of time and place evaporate. It’s a soft shock that could knock me back if not for my sturdy steel-toed boots. I’m untethered, instantly thrown to a bygone era where this man’s face appeared daily in my life. He’s older now—obviously—with silver threaded in the sides of his dark hair. Shorter hair than last I knew. Any trace of baby-faced youth is lost to firmer lines. A strong jaw. Hardened eyes.
“Jenny?” He sounds equally as shocked. Also disgusted, which I take personally. “Is this a joke? Did someone send you here on the worst freaking day of my life?” His words spit at me rapid-fire.
All these years later, and he assumes my life revolves around him. The absolute audacity.
My responding laugh emerges cold like antifreeze. I should walk. Leave him here in his cozy ditch with a flat tire and his insufferable melodrama.
He blinks, looking from me to the tow truck, then back to me and my Carhartt jacket with theJenny’s Autopatch affixed at my chest. The cursive, cherry red, retro-style logo gives the jacket a touch of style. “What are youdoinghere?”
I’m at a loss, because if anyone should not be on this road two miles frommytown, it’s him.
“I’m going back to the truck.”
