Her Dirty Mechanic

by Bella Love-Wins

  Her Dirty Mechanic

  Insta Love on the Run, #7

  Bella Love-Wins

  Bella Love-Wins Books

  Contents

  Insta-Love on the Run Series

  COPYRIGHT

  Blurb and Author’s Notes

  A Few Words of Thanks from Bella Love-Wins

  Her Dirty Mechanic

  1. Diesel

  2. Amber

  3. Diesel

  4. Amber

  5. Diesel

  6. Diesel

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  Other Books by Bella Love-Wins

  Let’s Stay Connected!

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  About Bella Love-Wins

  Insta-Love on the Run Series

  Includes:

  His Ex’s Little Sister (#1)

  Her Dirty Rival (#2)

  Her First Time (#3)

  His Naughty Waitress (#4)

  Her Cocky Client (#5)

  His Sassy Intern (#6)

  Her Dirty Mechanic (#7)

  COPYRIGHT

  Her Dirty Mechanic

  * * *

  Copyright (c) 2017 Bella Love-Wins

  All Rights Reserved.

  Blurb and Author’s Notes

  Synopsis of Her Dirty Mechanic

  * * *

  The sultry, sassy client needs more than her car serviced.

  * * *

  Diesel

  * * *

  My world was dark and empty, and my heart had turned cold... until that spicy young woman showed up.

  She stepped into my garage bay like she owned the place.

  And now, I won't let her leave until she gets a little dirty.

  * * *

  Author's Notes

  - Her Dirty Mechanic is a standalone romance short story with no Cliffhanger and a happy for now ending.

  - The Insta-Love on the Run series includes quick and sinfully steamy contemporary romance standalones you can devour on the run! Each book is a short burst of explosive romance that'll consume you for up to two hours. Find your dose of love from the very first page.

  Her Dirty Mechanic

  Insta-Love on the Run #7

  1

  Diesel

  “Sure boss, I'll lock up.” I listen on the business phone line at the back of the auto maintenance service bay as I wait for George, the owner of Smooth Ride Auto, to thank me. I know he won't, but it'd be nice for my boss to surprise me with some gratitude one of these days.

  I don't turn him down. Of course, I'm the one locking up the place on a Friday night. I know the drill. Been at it for over two years. I get in at eight a.m., work my ass off for ten to twelve hours a day, every fucking weekday plus Saturdays, and I am usually the last man to leave—even after George calls it a night and rolls out in his pimped up pickup truck.

  Not that I have anyone to blame for that. I don't. I volunteered to be here. Working my ass off was my choice. It beats being alone with the thoughts that play on repeat in my head, and the two precious faces that get all too vivid every time my head hits the pillow at night.

  But tonight's different. He tells me there's one more customer on the way over to pick up a vehicle. Which means I'm the fucker who has to wait around until they get here, even though I'm already going on twelve hours working with barely a break. Having to stick around is a pain in the ass, but I've got no choice. It's not like I can quit and go work on Wall Street anytime I want. This is the life of a man who's got to earn a living working with his hands and getting dirty for the next dollar.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow and swallow the urge to object to these unbearable working conditions, telling him instead that it's no fucking problem—minus the profanity. Then I hang up and make my way back to what I was working on. Maybe by the time this slow as fuck customer gets here, I'll be done with this fiery red 1969 ZL-1 Camaro.

  Taking a moment to walk around the car again, I forget all about my brewing anger as I admire its lines and slide the back of one hand along its chrome-accented side panels. See, this right here is what makes this job worthwhile. It's a fucking honor and privilege to work on a piece of automotive history which is why I don't just perform the lube job listed on the service order. Hell no. A car like this, I may never have another chance to appreciate up close. George doesn't mind either. He encourages us to give the customers a few extras for free, which keeps some of them coming back for more in a section of the city where there's an auto shop on every other corner.

  So, this beauty's getting the works. Lube change, brake fluid flush, fluid top-ups all round. If I have time, I'll check the tires and tweak the alignment. As I get to the front, I give the hood a pat, then get back down on the rolling creeper seat to finish the line flushes I started working on from the underbody. The service form says that the owner of this masterpiece won't be here until tomorrow morning, and it'll be one less thing to do when I get in for my Saturday shift.

  2

  Amber

  I head out of my real estate brokerage office thinking I should have left hours ago. Like Trent, my business partner, who took an afternoon flight to his annual summer weekend retreat with the boys. The only reason I stayed was because three of my realtors brought in tough as nails potential buyers who needed extra hand-holding to make a final decision. All three of the buyers followed through on their offers, so if they all are accepted by the sellers, that’ll help the bottom line for our office. In a way, I can’t blame Trent for leaving me to handle it all. He booked his scheduled flight to paradise weeks ago.

  Too bad I can’t say the same thing.

  I don’t get to plan ahead the way I used to be able to.

  As a widow in my thirties with three sons under eight years old, my plate is full on the home front. On top of that, my father has dementia. It’s the reason the boys and I moved back in with him, so he wouldn’t have to be alone half the time. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my children. Luke, Dylan and little Kyle are the best things that ever happened to me. I can’t picture my life without them. And I feel the same way about Dad. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. The four of them are my whole world. It’s just that everything’s riding on me for so many people, people who are absolutely, one hundred percent dependent on me and truly can’t make it without me. That’s why traveling and making long-term plans don’t factor in as much right now.

  And after this new incident with Dad yesterday, I can’t see the situation getting better anytime soon. It was my neighbor who phoned me in the middle of the day yesterday, at a time when the office was bustling with new and potential clients. Dad had gone for a walk without letting his home care nurse know, and didn’t take his cell phone with him. That in itself wasn’t the problem. He was fine until he made it back home. Except he didn’t. Nope. Instead of going to our house, the house he’s lived in for over thirty years, Dad walked into the neighbor’s house thinking it was his own. He undressed in their living room, went up into their bathroom, and filled their tub to take a bath. The neighbor’s teenage daughter, Lee-Ann, found him. She was the only one home and understandably was scared out of her skull. Thankfully Lee-Ann is also my sons’ babysitter, and a level-headed person to begin with. She got Dad’s nurse to come get him while he took his bath, and calmed her mother down when she made it home to find Dad drying off in her robe.

  I’ve got to do something about it. Dad’s nurse has suggested on a few occasions that placing him in a nursing home is best for him, but I can’t bring myself to do that to him. It’s not just that he’ll raise hell about going. No, that would be the least of my worries. As poor a state as Dad’s i
n, deep down, my sons and I still need him. And although I can’t bear losing a little bit of Dad every day, it would be infinitely worse not having him with us. Still, the home care nurse’s visits aren’t enough anymore. Something’s got to give soon.

  As I head out of the office and shuffle around in my purse for my keys, my phone buzzes in the side pocket. A quick scan of the screen shows it’s Lee-Ann.

  “Everything’s okay?” I ask without as much as a greeting. Probably because I’ve still got Dad’s last faux pas on my mind.

  “Hi, Amber! Yes, it’s all good here.”

  “You sure?” I press the phone between my ear and my shoulder blade to free up my hands so I can find the office keys as I wait for her reassurance.

  “The boys are fine. I promise.”

  “And Dad?”

  “Mr. Bain’s in the living room watching TV. I was just calling to remind you about movie night.”

  “Right!” I’m beyond relieved that there’s nothing to report, but also a little embarrassed. Lee-Ann’s been taking Luke and Dylan, my two older boys, to the movies every other Friday night for over a year. It should be like clockwork for me, but like most long days, I’m slightly frazzled, so it slipped my mind. “I’ll be there soon to watch Kyle.”

  “You don’t have to this time, remember?”

  Crap. I forgot that too. Tonight’s Kyle’s debut to movie night with his big brothers and Lee-ann. “That’s right. Sorry, Leeann. It’s been one of those days. So is he excited?”

  “He is! You should see him; he’s practically bouncing off the walls. Oh, and the home care nurse just got here for Mr. Bain. Take your time coming home. Everything’s covered.”

  As I wrap up the call and slip my phone back into my purse, I can’t begin to imagine what I’ll do with the time. Surprise downtime doesn’t come often. I have a few ideas on what to do, considering that Dad’s nurse will be around for at least a couple of hours and the boys will be with Lee-Ann. Maybe I’ll pick up some wine on the way home, and just curl up in my living room with a drink and one of those steamy romance novels Lee-Ann keeps downloading to my tablet computer.

  For now, I’ll pick up my car and get out of the city. Taking the side alley next to my office, I head over to the shop where I dropped off my baby for an oil and filter change. It’s where that hot mechanic works. We don’t know each other personally, but I see him in the coffee line some mornings. There were a couple of times I noticed him looking into my main floor corner office through the window from the sidewalk when he passed on a coffee run.

  I can’t help but notice him.

  And those sad eyes of his.

  He’s rugged, dirty, and damned sexy. How can he not be, doing such a dirty, masculine job with that broad, muscular body, his chiseled face, and the sleeve of ink from his right wrist up past the line of his shirt sleeve? Hell, I’d like to see it up close. Touch it. Heaven only knows how many nights I’ve fantasized about those rough hands running up and down my body, against my skin. I’d love a little escape from reality with that big, muscular, dirty mechanic.

  The thing is, I didn’t believe I’d ever be ready to date again after my husband passed close to three years ago from a rare heart condition. The loss still feels fresh sometimes. He passed just months after Kyle was born. But I know he’d want me to move on with my life, to find love again, and with a good man who’d also love our boys. My friends keep telling me it’s way past time to dip my toes in the dating scene. Even if I agreed with them, there’s so much going on, with running the business, taking care of the kids, and making sure Dad’s okay.

  One of these days, I’ll take the leap and actually talk to that mechanic. Who knows, we might have something in common. And if we don’t, I’d be oh so fine with a one-time hookup with a man like him. Hell yes, he can get my motor running any day of the week and twice on Sunday. And maybe I’ll at least get to see the sadness leave his eyes for a while. Too bad he wasn’t out front when I left my baby at his shop this morning. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch him this evening, especially now that I’ve got some free time on my hands…

  3

  Diesel

  I slide out from under the car after I'm done. Still no customer. The temptation is strong as fuck to call George and tell him I ain't staying a minute longer for whoever it is. Just because I got no one waiting for me at home don't mean I should put up with this shit.

  A groan leaves my throat, and I swallow hard at the thought.

  No one's waiting for me.

  I'll never fucking get used to that.

  Maybe that’s why I'm uneasy tonight. It’s almost two years to the day since I lost them.

  My wife Janine and sweet baby girl Cara were here one minute and gone the next because of a fucking drunk driver. Wrong place, wrong time, and boom they were gone. And when it was all over, I lost the best part of my fucking soul. My life was over. That fucking prick lived too. He's still serving a nickel for a DUI causing death, but even in that prison cell, he gets to breathe air while the two most important things in my life got wiped from the face of the planet in an instant.

  It’s probably a good thing the fucker’s in jail. If he were out here where I could get to him, he’d be six feet under. That’s where he fucking belongs right now for what he’s done. In my book, it’s the only amount of justice that makes sense for what he took from me. That son of a bitch turned me back into the tough bastard who never took any shit from anyone. Janine and Cara softened my tough exterior and even tougher interior when they showed me what love really was about.

  Then, it was ripped away from me.

  So much for allowing myself to be happy. That happily ever after shit isn’t for a guy like me, apparently. I’ve been so damn bitter since that happened that I’ve buried myself in my work. I know that I need to let go and get on with my life. But how can I when Janine and Cara never will?

  I uncurl my fists that balled up on their own. Whoever said the anger and grief are easier with time has no fucking idea.

  As I start to neaten up the service bay, I hear the bell on the customer door to the service bay jingle.

  “We're closed,” I shout over without looking, mustering up all the friendliness in my voice I can manage given my state of mind, slight exhaustion, and the lateness on a Friday evening. It ain't much, and my voice still sounds gruff as fuck, but hell, at least I tried.

  “Doesn't look like it's closed,” drawls the saucy, sexy as sin female voice from somewhere in that direction.

  Flicking my gaze up from the oily rag in my hands, I look over toward the door.

  That's when I see her.

  The goddess who works in that swanky real estate brokerage up the street close to where I get my coffee every morning. I've seen her more than a few times, but once is enough to know that she's trouble in a business suit.

  It's the fuck-me stilettos accentuating those shapely legs that can clamp around my waist to let me know how much she's enjoying it as I make her scream my name. Her round, firm hips and ass in her black pencil skirt that I can grip onto no matter what angle I position her at to take her hard.

  Maybe I'll hang on to her trim waist that tapers in as it meets her ribcage and makes her full, perky breasts stand out. Her black pinstripe suit jacket is open, and her nipples press against the thin soft fabric of the off-white blouse she has on. Fuck, it shows just enough cleavage rising out from the top button to make any man interested in seeing a hell of a lot more. For the first time in a long time—since before my life went to shit—I’m hard just picturing my face buried between her cleavage, or latched onto one nipple then the other, driving her insane as I fuck her senseless.

  And her face. It's the icing on the cake, framed by honey blonde hair that causes her to look one part angelic, two parts naughty. Her almond shaped hazel eyes are set perfectly above her button nose and full, cupid's bow lips. I'm sure she knows how to use that mouth to bring a man to his knees, or can get down on hers and break his will. I've gone for
years without sex, so it's a damn near miracle that this woman already has me picturing what it'll be like ending my unintended celibacy to get between her legs. But she does. And right this second, I'd give just about anything, even some extra time working at the shop—to have those lips wrapped around my—

  “Are you going to just stand there staring at me, or can I get my car?” she asks, abruptly pulling me from my appreciative gaze.

  “Evening, miss,” I say, lowering the rag a little to hide the erection growing behind my overalls. “You're not allowed back here. Wait at the door, please.”

  Ignoring me, she struts inside and stands beside a car still hoisted up on one of our two hydraulic lifts. “I know my way around these places. Don't worry about me.”

  “That's not the point,” I say, and realize this woman isn't about to listen to a word I say. I'm better off giving her the car she came for and getting her the hell out of here before she gets hurt. “Which vehicle are you picking up this evening?”

  She gives me a hard look and then reaches into her purse.

  “That Camaro you're working on.”

  My eyes snap back at the car, and then over to her again. “This is your car?” I ask, and instantly have that much more respect for the stunning blonde.