by Lynda Bailey
All morning, she stayed cloistered in her office to avoid breaking down in front of her crew. The mismatched group of auto mechanics were kind and lovable, but any show of emotion, especially something morose—like a woman crying—had them scurrying to safety. That was probably the reason none of them had shown the courage to tell her about Ester. To spare everyone an embarrassing scene, she took the opportunity to go over the accounting books.
It was almost as depressing as someone dying. Her father’s idea to relocate the garage to the intersection of Heartache and Hopeful had seemed like a good business decision five years ago. However, the actual results were far less than stellar.
While they had managed to maintain their client list, the move hadn’t brought in any new customers like her father had anticipated. Only the thought that her dad couldn’t see first-hand the disappointing reality of his choice made her grateful he wasn’t alive.
Combine the lackluster business with several other recent setbacks, like needing to replace the expensive hydraulic lift, and the truth was clear. The garage faced bankruptcy by this time next year if something significant didn’t happen. And happen soon.
She laid down her pen and cradled her face in her hands, swallowing the sob. Losing the garage would be like losing her dad all over again. Bert Anderson had started this business the year she was born. She refused to allow all his hard work to disappear.
It took several long minutes for Mic to shove her demons back into their dark closet. She sat up and organized the papers. She’d do whatever was necessary—mortgage her house, hell, sell her house—to keep the garage solvent. Her loyal mechanics deserved that much. So did her father’s memory.
With the papers in neat piles, she stood. A wave of dizziness hit her. She glanced at the clock. Well past lunchtime. No wonder she had a killer headache. She picked up the receiver, intent on ordering the usual deli lunch for everyone, when a ruckus broke out in the shop.
Mic hung up the phone then ran to the office door and threw it open. Glenn and Boyd were restraining Scott Trehune, if just barely. Abe and Chuck came to stand on either side of her, seeming prepared to defend her.
When Ester’s grandson saw her, he stopped struggling. “You!” He stuck a finger out. “Tell me how the hell you did it?”
Confusion swamped Mic. “How’d I do what?”
“Oh, that’s right, play stupid.”
He lunged forward, but Glenn and Boyd held him secure. Scott glared at the brothers then pinned her with his angry glower. The blatant animosity, bordering on hatred, in his clear, green eyes made her shrink back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Scott.”
He barked a loud laugh. “You mean you don’t know anything about Nonie’s will?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, come on. It’s the one where you convinced my frail grandmother to leave half of everything she owns to you.”
Mic’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Wow, nice acting,” he scoffed.
She took a step forward. “I had no idea about any of this, Scott. You have to believe me. Let him go guys.”
Reluctantly, Glenn and Boyd released Scott. He straightened his coat. “Too bad I don’t believe you.” He jabbed his finger at her again. “Just so you know, I plan to contest the will. You won’t see a nickel. I promise you.”
He spun on his heel and stalked out. Mic watched him go then looked at the mechanics who wore the same stunned expression she knew was on her face. With a sad shake of her head, she went back into her office.
What else could go wrong today?
*
Scott gave the closed garage door a light rap. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to face anyone after his deployable behavior that afternoon. Another part hoped only Mic was there so he could say what needed saying without having to return.
The air backed up in his lungs as he waited, but no one answered. He contemplated knocking again, dismissed the idea and turned to leave, thankful he’d dodged the bullet, for tonight. The door creaked open behind him.
He whirled around. Mic stood in the doorway, her slight frame backlit by a muted light inside the garage. Her hair wasn’t cover by her signature cap or in its usual braid. The incredible length of her shimmering mane punched him. He never realized it reached her hips.
Though shadows covered most of her face, he could read the tension in her stance. His gut roiled. God, he’d been such a prick to her. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and forced his lips into a smile. “I wasn’t sure if anyone was still around.”
She crossed her arms. “I was doing paperwork. If you’re checking on the Comet, it should be done—”
“I’m not,” he said and swore to himself when she jumped. “I mean I know you’ll do your usual great job.” He paused, despising himself. “I just, uh, stopped by to, uh…” He blew out a gush of air, rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to meet her gaze. “I came by to apologize for this afternoon. I was a total ass.”
She licked her lips. “I don’t know anything about Ester’s will. I swear.”
“I know you don’t,” he assured her. “After my little performance, I went back to Nonie’s house and started sifting through her things. That’s when I found her journals. Did you know she wrote every day? Even if it was just a sentence or two, everyday, since Christmas Day, 1933. That’s when she got her first journal.”
Mic shifted again. Why was he suddenly rambling?
“Anyway, Nonie wrote about how much she appreciated the care you gave the Comet, and her. Those Sunday visits when you two played backgammon kept her from feeling so lonely.”
Another pause. Guilt ate at Scott that he hadn’t been the one helping his grandmother feel less alone. And it was that guilt which had caused him to lash out at the woman standing before him. He cleared an unexpected lump from his throat. “Close to five years ago, she decided to will you half her estate.”
“I don’t want any of Ester’s money,” Mic stated with quiet finality.
“I understand, but her will is clear. You get half. Do whatever you want with the money. Go on a trip, buy a new house, whatever. But you’re getting it.”
The lump grew bigger, along with a burning sensation in his eyes. He ducked his head and blinked, determined not to break down. “Uh, you were special to my Nonie and I want to, uh, thank you for everything you did for her.” To his absolute horror, a sob clawed up from his chest. He pivoted, his jaw clenched tight.
“Hey.” Gentle hands rubbed his back. “You want to come inside for a minute?”
He nodded then followed her through the open door. The smell of grease and motor oil stung his nose. Mic indicated a row of ugly, vinyl and metal kitchen chairs where customers could wait for their cars. He plopped onto one and she sat next to him.
Minutes ticked by, but she didn’t say anything. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap. Scott stared at the discolored concrete wall, dotted with an array of tools, until he’d gained a foothold on his emotions. When he was confident he wouldn’t dissolve into tears, he looked at Mic. Moisture glistened in her eyes.
“God, I’m sorry,” he choked out.
She swiped at her cheeks. “For what?”
“For making you cry.”
“Don’t apologize. I know how tragic it is when someone you love dies.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “When my dad died, I was a mess for months.”
“Shit. I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories for you.”
“It’s okay. He died four years ago. But I still miss him. Every single day.”
“Then it’s not true that the pain gets easier with time?”
“Easier?” She shook her head. “No. But you get used to it. It becomes a part of you, like a dull ache you learn to live with. It’s there every morning when you wake up. Waiting for you.”
A soft sob escaped and she turned away, but Scott wrapped his arm around her, bringing her close
r. She laid her head on his shoulder. Soon moisture seeped into his t-shirt and he tightened his embrace. He had no idea how long they sat there. He only knew it felt right.
Finally, she shifted away with a sniffle. “Guess it’s my turn to apologize. I don’t usually do break down in front of people.”
He gave her shoulder one last squeeze then released her completely. “Don’t apologize. This was nice, sharing the grief with someone who knows how I feel.”
She blew out a sigh. “Well I do know that.”
They lapsed into a companionable silence. He straightened with a sudden thought. “Have dinner with me.”
Her soft brown eyes widened. “What?”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night and we can reminisce about Nonie. I’d love to hear your stories. Plus, it’ll give me the opportunity to further apologize for my behavior today.”
She swatted the air. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”
“Then say you’ll let me take you out to dinner.” He turned on his most charming smile. “Please.”
“Well,” she hedged. “All right.”
“Awesome. What time is good?”
“How about six-thirty? That’ll give me a chance to get cleaned up after work.”
“Sounds good. Should I pick you up here or at your place?” He stood then held his hand out to help her stand as well.
“Here. It’s more convenient.”
Mic walked beside him to the door. He faced her and became tongue-tied at the vision she presented. Her hair was indeed long, well past her waist, and it shimmered like a cascade of slick, tawny brown rain. His fingers itched to thread through the strands.
He stared into her big, cocker spaniel eyes with their gold flecks, and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “Well. Good night,” he said with forced ease.
“Good night,” she repeated.
He gripped the knob so tight, he thought the metal creaked as he opened the door. The evening twilight had turned pitch black.
“Scott?”
He turned, sucker punched once more by her innocent beauty. “Yes?”
“I wanted to say thanks.” She lifted a shoulder and waved a hand at the row of chairs. “For, you know.”
With a small nod, he walked into the night.
Chapter Four
“Boss, we’re gonna pack it in for the night.”
Mic looked up from her desk at Abe standing in her office doorway. “Did you get the heads out of that Ford engine?”
He sighed. “Finally. Seeing how late it is, figured we’d finish up getting them ready to ship to Lincoln first thing in the morning.”
“Good idea.” She glanced at the wall clock and cringed. Quarter past six. The overtime this week was going to kill her, but it couldn’t be helped. She turned her attention back to her paperwork. “Have a good night.”
“You, too. Oh, and the boys wanted me to give you a message.”
She looked up again.
Abe pursed his lips and whistled a long, loud wolf whistle then his face creased with a huge grin. Relief washed over her anxious nerves as she smiled back. At least some men thought she looked attractive. She hoped Scott would too. “Tell them all thanks.”
“Who’s your hot date with tonight?”
“It’s not a hot date. Just dinner.”
“Oh?”
The question hung in the air. When she realized Abe wasn’t leaving, she heaved a sigh with an irked look. “If you must know, it’s with Ester Trehune’s grandson.”
Abe’s eyebrows almost touched his receding hairline. “The ass…I mean jerk from yesterday?”
“Yes. He came by last night and apologized. Then he asked me to dinner.”
Abe frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“He was pretty pissed off yesterday. You gonna be okay?”
“For heaven’s sake, Abe. It’s just dinner. Besides he’s Ester’s grandson and not some stranger I met online.”
“Still, you be safe tonight.”
Mic rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad,” she mocked. “Now, go home. That’s an order.”
He gave a teasing salute. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
Alone, Mic tried to refocus on the ledger numbers, but they kept running together, much like her thoughts since Scott’s visit last night. His wolfish smile when he’d asked her dinner fuzzed her brain to the point where she couldn’t concentrate. It was the same smile from high school, only then it was directed at the likes of Jaci Turner. But last night, that smile had been for her, and her alone. After he left, she came to an important decision, and for once the decision had nothing to do with the garage or her employees. It was strictly about her, Michaela.
The echoing knock on the garage door caused her pulse to rocket and a cold sweat to bubble on her skin. She took a deep breath and, with as much calm as she could muster, pushed away from the desk and stood. She smoothed the front of her sleeveless peach dress then retrieved the matching jacket from the back of her chair. Another knock sounded, a bit louder this time. Rusty nails harpooned her stomach.
Perhaps this was all a colossal mistake. She wasn’t good at this dating thing, having rarely indulged in the practice. Maybe she should just hide in her office until Scott gave up and went away.
No. Her father had not raised a quitter. She was going through with this date, with her decision. Period. She squared her shoulders and exited her office.
Her low heels clicked in rhythm across the cement floor. Just as she reached the garage door, there was a third knock. This one sounded like a fist banging on wood. She inhaled one last breath for courage, pressed a hand to her insides to keep them inside, then pulled open the door.
Scott’s handsome expression, clouded with irritation, gave him the look of a predatory wolf. His gaze took in her hair, long and loose, draped over her left shoulder so she could work at her desk, then swept down her body.
Every inch of her skin tingled, like the bubbles from a freshly poured soda pop. Her nipples hardened as the apex of her legs hummed. At her shoes, his eyes made the return journey, stopping at her hips, her breasts, once more her hair.
Under the intense scrutiny, Mic tried not to squirm, but her stomach contracted to the point where she wondered how she managed to stand still. To distract herself, she took the time to appraise his appearance as well, finding nothing lacking. The golden sweater emphasized his broad shoulders while the Dockers slacks highlighted his slim hips. With his hair slightly wind-blown, he looked too handsome for words. Even the fatigue lines around his mouth and eyes had lessened.
When Scott met her stare, she forced down the rock of nervousness. “Hi.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I mean, hi.”
This time his eyes roamed her face and she worried that maybe she didn’t look as good as Abe had made her feel. Her hopes for the evening crumbled at the possibility. “Should we go?”
Scott snapped upright, recovering with a wide smile. “Absolutely.”
He waited as she locked the door then took her elbow and led her to a Kelly green sports car. “Wow. A Porsche.” She slid onto the posh passenger seat. “This is a first for me.”
“And me,” he said. “With the short notice in getting to Tatum, I didn’t care what kind of car Avis gave me so long as it had four tires, a steering wheel and went fast. Think it’s too chilly to have the top down?”
“Not right now, but maybe later.”
He started the motor. It purred rich and full, like a tumbler of brandy.
“Is Gino’s still in business?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He looked at her, his smile wolf-like again. “Then let’s go. I’m starving.”
“Me, too.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic. The way her stomach rolled over itself, she doubted food would stay down.
She settled into the leather seat. Too late to turn back now, she told herself. T
he die was cast, as her father used to say. She’d made her decision and, come hell or high water, she would see it through to the end. However, as they drove the short distance to the restaurant, she fretted about just what that end might be.
*
Scott kept glancing at Mic, unable to accept that the knock-out beauty beside him—flashing a bit of creamy leg—was an auto mechanic. And gay, at least according to Jaci.
He’d always thought Mic was cute, attractive even, especially once he realized just how long her hair was. The way it cascaded down her back had his blood heating and his groin tightening. How would all those luscious strands feel draped over his naked body?
He slapped his brain. What the hell was he thinking? Mic could very well be playing for the other team. And even if she was bi-sexual there was utterly no way he could predict how this evening would turn out. He certainly did not wish to make an ass out of himself for the second time in as many days by suggesting something out of bounds. He rolled his shoulders, demanding they relax. The best expectation for tonight was to not expect anything.
In the parking lot of Gino’s, he paused to put up the top. Mic was right. By the time they finished eating, the night air would have turned chilly. He opened the passenger door and helped her out. Side by side, but not touching, they walked into the only restaurant within fifty miles.
Scott scoffed to himself. One restaurant. Near his Manhattan apartment there were at least a dozen restaurants, from Italian to Chinese to Moroccan. Of course none of them had the veal parmesan that Gino served.
For a Tuesday night in Tatum, the bar bustled with activity, but the hostess showed them straight to a quiet table by a window. The waitress followed on their heels.
“Can I get you something from the bar?” she asked, setting down two water glasses.
Scott looked at Mic. “Whatcha think?”
“I’d like a glass of the house red, please.”
“And for you, sir?”
“Bourbon and water.”
The waitress nodded and left. Scott opened his menu, but Mic didn’t. “Aren’t you going to order dinner?”
“I always have the pasta with marinara sauce.”
