Page 38 of Turn Up The Heat

“Okay. Who was it?”

“It was Grady’s Garage. And whoever called left a message.”

13

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of Bellamy Blake. I’m not available right now…”

Jesus. Even pre-recorded, she sounded hot as hell.

Shane shifted uncomfortably in the archaic desk chair in the office, watching the steady snowfall on the other side of the frost-edged windowpanes. As Bellamy’s voicemail let out a soft beep, he straightened in his seat as if she could see him.

“Hey, Bellamy, it’s Shane, from the garage. I’m, ah, afraid I have some bad news about your transmission.” His eyes flicked over the information he’d gotten from the distributor’s website, and he frowned. “I know I promised your car would be done by Friday, but I’ve run into a bit of a problem, so if you could give me a call when you get this, I can get you up to speed. I’ll be at the garage.”

Shane left the number, then pressed the button on the landline to end the call. He knew she was already pretty irritated about how long the repairs would take, and this wasn’t going to do anything to make him more endearing. Not that he had any say in the matter.

Shane had already given fast-talking the manager at the distributing warehouse his best shot, trying to nice-guy him into putting a rush on the order. But Bellamy’s new transmission was stuck in the same snowstorm that was currently doing it’s damndest to sideline a good chunk of the East Coast. Far be it for Shane to mess with Mother Nature. That tranny would just have to wait, and irritated or not, Bellamy would have to wait right along with it.

Making sure the ringer on the landline was turned up high, Shane flipped the radio on. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 drifted from the speakers, loosening the morning’s grip on his muscles. He looked at the Mustang, its lines stark in the overcast shadows thrown through the windows, and something tightened in his chest. Running his palm down the driver’s side quarter panel, he walked alongside the car with reverence, taking his time to look at it from every angle.

He knew the money he’d get from working on Bellamy’s car was a temporary fix, a delay of the inevitable. The Mustang would have to go, and even then, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. When he’d come to Pine Mountain, there were no grand illusions, no intentions of anything permanent. No plans for it to become what Shane had known, deep down, he’d been made for from the beginning.

Funny thing about life. Sometimes it did its own thing and you were just at its mercy, hoping you came out okay once the dust cleared. Of course, there was one way Shane could make the whole thing disappear, erase the problem as if it had never existed and right the debt he’d struggled to repay.

No. The option was a non-option. He’d sell the car. Hell, he’d sell everything he owned including the shirt off his back before he sold the one thing that meant the most to him.

After all, his soul was the only thing Shane had that he couldn’t buy back.

He popped the hood and started tinkering with the car, just grateful to have it under his hands. It was harder than usual to slip into a calming groove, but after a while, his mind let go and he gave in to the feel of the sleek steel and intricate details, as if he could memorize them by touch.

A dual slice of halogen high beams cut through the front windows of the garage, snapping his head up in surprise. He squinted through the glass, trying to make out the vehicle in the lot through the thickly swirling snow.

“Jackson. Gotta be,” Shane muttered, pushing off from the car.

Jackson had called about an hour ago to say he’d left his wallet behind when he’d tossed it on the workbench to help Shane spread salt. He was probably coming by in the plow to grab it. The snow was really coming down now, so whoever it was had to be driving one hell of a truck, or better yet, a tank. The mountain roads were merciless in bad weather, even for the locals. Without four wheel drive, you didn’t have much beyond a prayer.

The side door banged open on a gust of wind, and Shane’s brows nearly lifted off the top of his head at the sight before him. Bellamy Blake stood as tall as her five-foot-six frame would let her, with her hands on her hips and her slush-coated boots planted firmly over the concrete floor. Big, fluffy snowflakes lay scattered throughout her blonde curls, and her face was flushed with what looked like a mix of anger and cold.

“What do youmeanyou’ve run into a problem?” she demanded, pressing her lips into a thin line.

Shane opened his mouth, but his vocal cords were non-compliant. Had she seriously driven here in the middle of a snowstorm to pick a fight with him over her car?

And was he seriously turned on beyond measure at the sight of her?

“The parts are stuck in Ohio,” Shane managed, and she narrowed her eyes.

“But you said they’d be shipped today,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Shane rebounded, gesturing toward the windows. “Well, yeah, before Armageddon out there changed course. The trucks are all snowed in, Bellamy. They can’t leave until the storm stops. Getting here—getting anywhere—on mountain roads in weather like this is next to impossible.” He served her with a disbelieving stare. “Did you actually come out here in the middle of a snowstorm to argue with me about your car?”

Bellamy didn’t blink. “Yes. Is that…Beethoven?”

Her face crinkled in confusion, and she turned to stare at the old radio as if she’d never seen one before in her life.

“Bach. How the hell did you get here?” Shane took a few steps toward her to look out the window at the side lot.

“Jenna’s BMW.”

A bolt of something Shane couldn’t identify shot through his chest. She could’ve been killed a dozen ways in this weather in a car like that. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

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