by A. M. Mahler
The three cars running around the quarter-mile short track drew my attention back to the present as my boss stood next to me making observations that I noted with black-stained fingertips in my tablet.
“The air dam sits too high,” he said as we focused on one car making its way around the track.
“It meets the specs,” I replied.
“Double check it.” I would because he told me to, but it was right on point. I stared at the red number five car as it lagged behind the other cars on the track. It wasn’t there yet. Next to me, my boss crossed one arm over his chest and rested his other elbow on his forearm, scratching his chin as his eyes followed the car around the track.
“Harder on the turns, Jacks,” he said into the headset. The female voice on the other end told him where he could shove it. My boss smirked in response, and I was reminded that I hit the jackpot the day I landed this job. He spun on his heel, and I turned to follow him back to his truck.
“It’s still not ready,” he said, pulling the headset off and handing it to his assistant walking on his other side. I pulled mine off as well and cursed as it got stuck in my hair. My already messy bun got pulled, probably making little bumps in my hair, but I finally handed it over, making no attempt to right what now likely looked like a bird’s nest sitting on top of my head.
“There’s not enough downforce on the turns,” I replied. But I didn’t mention that that’s the reason the air dam didn’t look right. He knew that. He knew everything about stock cars.
After propelling myself up into the cab of his truck and seat-belting myself in, I continued making notes in my tablet. Pulling away from the short track, we headed onto the rural, two-lane road at a leisurely pace. One too many tickets from his brother-in-law, the chief of police, slowed him down.
In town limits anyway.
The quaint, picturesque New England town passed by outside the window without me paying any attention to it. People saw charm. To me, it was just where my job went after the company left New York. I spent my childhood traveling the country, and I could honestly say there’s no one part I liked better than any other. Everywhere you went had pros and cons. Grayson Falls, New Hampshire had my job, and so, here I was.
I glanced up at the profile of Ryan Willis, my boss and the son of famed stock car driver, Toby Willis. Ryan was half owner of Willis-Reilly Racing. His sister, Jackie Reilly Mackenzie, was the other owner and the daughter of my idol, Jimmy. When the position of lead design engineer opened up, I didn’t knock on their door. I pounded with both fists and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Thankfully, my education and work experience spoke for themselves because Ryan said I’m pushy as all hell. When you’re a woman in a man’s business, you really don’t have any other choice.
The road got bumpy as we left asphalt and entered dirt and gravel. Ryan took the potholes slow, muttering about how his brother needed to get on filling them in. I stopped typing since the bumps knocked my fingers off the appropriate keys. Ryan’s assistant was in the back seat on the phone. I glanced back and wondered for the hundredth time how she got through life in this area wearing heels. She still dressed like she worked in New York City instead of the Great North Woods. This area was for boots and sneakers you don’t care about. Nothing around our building was paved. Yet when we pulled up to the converted barn and got out of the truck, she gingerly walked around on her stilts.
Shaking my head, I hopped down from the truck and made my way—in steel-toed boots—into the building. Yes, they made my feet hot in the summer, but the building was air conditioned, and I liked to keep my toes. When you worked on cars, sometimes you dropped stuff. So, I wore my big, ugly, chunky boots, regardless of whether I was spending the day in my office or under a car.
Ryan headed upstairs to his office, and his assistant followed. I didn’t miss the male heads turning to watch her. Jamie was young, blonde, statuesque, and totally put together. She was also smart as hell. Secretly, I thought she still dressed up because she liked the attention. She was perpetually single. My theory was because when she opened her mouth, her intelligence was obvious, and men got confused. They expected an airhead but got brains instead. She was the whole package, and hopefully one day, the right guy would see that. He’d be just as beautiful as she was, and they’d make stunning babies.
I also thought her brain was wasted in her job, but kept my mouth shut on that topic. Who was I to give career advice? If she was happy taking calls and keeping Ryan’s schedule, I was in no position to judge.
Me, I was the polar opposite. My mousy brown, arrow-straight hair was always piled in some knotty mess on the top of my head. I walked around in cargo pants, heavy boots, and a tank top that in the colder weather, I switched out for a Henley or one of my Willis-Reilly Racing hoodies. My clothes were usually grease-stained, my fingertips the same. I had average brown eyes and my breasts were on the smallish-size. Around here, I blended in like the wallpaper—if we had wallpaper.
I took the metal stairs leading up to the office level at a jog. I had to wait for the car to come back from the track before I could work on it, so instead, I entered my small office and sat down at my digital drawing board. A few swipes of my fingers brought up the drawings and specs of the car. I was just about to pop in my ear buds when there was a rap on my doorjamb. Jamie stood there in her stylish navy-blue dress. It was plain, but on her it looked sophisticated.
“What’s up?” I asked.
With a sigh, she walked over to me and tugged my hair free. I sat there and took it. She did this sometimes when the chaos of my appearance offended her polished sensibilities.
“Just scheduled a meeting for Ryan,” she said, as she finger-combed my hair out and arranged it around my shoulders.
“Uh, that’s not really unexpected since that’s one of your job responsibilities, right?” I replied. She gave a not-so-gentle tug in response.
“It’s with a guy that wants to get into stock car racing. He’s flying in from California, big bucks. Ryan practically salivated.”
“Also, not surprising as that’s kind of our customer base,” I said.
She gave my head a shove with her hand when she finished with my hair and started to sashay toward my office door. “Some guy named Colton Donavan.” She tossed over her shoulder like she wasn’t dropping a bomb, and I practically tumbled off my exercise ball that served as an office chair.
“Get back here, you wicked bitch!” She turned to me with a smirk so naughty I knew she was messing with me. “Colton Donavan.” My ears must have been deceiving me. Too much time listening to roaring engines could have finally started the hearing loss.
“Tall, dark, brooding, muscled, tattooed, and hella delicious Colton Donavan.” She spun on her stilettos. Yup, my hearing was fine. That was an accurate description of IndyCar’s bad boy and current star. My heart sped up, and my palms started to sweat a bit.
Colton Donavan.
Coming here.
I was starting to fangirl.
“He wants a stock car?” I asked. “He wants to get out of Indy?”
Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know what his plans are as far as racing, but he told Ryan he’s interested in buying a stock car team, so maybe his business is looking to expand. All I know is Mr. Delectable is coming here, and we should look our best.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned back to my digital board. “He’s married, Jamie. His wife is a bombshell and seems sweet. His eye doesn’t wander anymore.”
I was not going to lie, my vagina shed some tears when I heard the news of his nuptials.
“His body doesn’t wander,” Jamie said. “And maybe his mind doesn’t either, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still appreciate the look of a beautiful woman standing in front of him. He’s married, not dead. Would it kill you to wash your hands and brush your hair?”
I looked down at my splotchy fingertips with a shrug. I was who I was. With a frustrated sigh, she pivoted on her heel and headed for the door. As soon as she clea
red it, I grumbled, pulled my hair up, and got back to work. But the anticipation of meeting Colton Donavan still lingered in the back of my mind.
Simon
M
y first impression of Grayson Falls was that it looked almost exactly like Cape Brandon, minus the ocean. It was quaint with its Main Street and various businesses along both sides. Old-fashioned black lampposts lined the street, and traffic meandered lazily along. It was almost like home. It was just missing my family.
Taking a deep breath and letting it back out again, I reminded myself for the thousandth time since I left home that morning that they were only three hours away. I could go there and back in the same day if I wanted to.
Or I could just go back entirely and cancel this whole part of my life.
My freelance work paid well. I was my own boss, made my own hours, decided my own workload, and was compensated what I asked to be. I stopped work for the day when the boys got home from school, and we went swimming or rode bikes or, if the weather was bad, played board games. I helped them with their homework and doctored their skinned knees.
But I was in a rut, and my life was never going to change.
I didn’t think I wanted my life to change. I had things good. Yeah, I lived with my mom, but so what? I did my own laundry, did work for her around the house, took turns cooking, and was gainfully employed. It wasn’t like I was a slug.
She would never admit it, but I think she wanted the chance to stand on her own two feet. I let myself believe she needed someone to take care of her since our father died, but that’s not true. And lately, as I watched my brother with his boys, I had been thinking I wanted some of my own. Or maybe girls. But kids, and a whole crate of them. Of course, to have said kids, I needed a woman to help produce them.
Which meant my life had to change. So, I accepted the position in New Hampshire despite the fact I could have totally done this job from Maine, and if I pushed the issue, I probably would have still gotten the job. My portfolio spoke for itself. I worked for high-end businesses and small mom and pops.
The thing was, the last few years, I had this image in my head of the woman I wanted. My dream girl, if you will. She was beautiful, of course. Put together, a career woman, smart, well-dressed, possibly blonde. Stereotypical? Generic? Maybe a little objectified? Yeah, probably. I blamed my dick.
My brother said I was a fancy dresser. He was not wrong. I was a professional. I did video conferences and client site visits. Image was literally my job. How could I have convinced a client I could create a visually stunning project if I showed up looking like a mountain man? And if I wanted to spend my money on on-trend clothing because I didn’t have anything else to spend it on, then who cared? When image ran your life, you had to be on your game.
I turned off the main road after the hospital and started down a dirt and gravel, pot-hole-ridden road. There was a multi-million-dollar business down here? My interview was a video conference, so I hadn’t actually been to the office. The road was enshrouded by trees. As if someone called a cue, a deer ambled across the road in no particular hurry right in front of me. The road was bone dry, so the tires kicked up dust. The canopy of trees blocked out most of the sun as I started to wonder if maybe this was a cut through to a busier road, but my GPS said my destination was coming up. Quite frankly, I was impressed I even still had GPS.
Bright light shined in my eyes as I came out of the trees, and the sky opened up revealing the perfect sunny day I left behind with civilization. The road continued forward, but the disembodied voice of my GPS announced my arrival at my destination. Stopping my Jeep when I saw buildings, I took in my surroundings. My mouth salivated as I spotted an Aston Martin in a stand-alone garage ahead of me. My brow raised when I saw that it was parked next to a stock car. I shouldn’t be surprised considering the company I now worked for designed and sold stock cars and my new boss owned professional teams, but it still made for an odd visual—then again, they are both fast cars.
Next to a good-sized log home on my right, two barns stood. One had faded red paint. The doors were open, and I could see the inside. It looked like what you’d expect to see in a typical American barn. A pickup truck was parked outside of it, and fields lay beyond. Pigs and chickens wandered around as if they owned the place.
The second barn had a newer coat of paint and even trim painted a clean, crisp white. However, upon closer inspection, it had automatic glass doors. Blinking, I cocked my head to the side. That looked really strange on a barn.
My attention turned to two men walking down the road before me. They were in the dark coveralls of mechanics, and I could see the Willis-Reilly Racing logo on the breast. As they caught sight of me, they raised a hand in greeting before continuing on toward the building. One man dropped a cigarette in a plastic receptacle right in front of the door, and they walked inside as the automatic doors opened.
Cautiously, I pulled my truck up and got out to walk around. This was the address for the company, but I was standing on a farm. Walking toward the door, I saw the company logo etched into the glass. Okay. Well, maybe at least someone inside could point me in the direction of the offices.
But when I crossed over the threshold, I was in a completely different world. I stopped short, and my mouth fell open in shock. Standing there, gaping like a bumpkin, I looked at what was around me. A concrete building sat inside the barn. Before me was an enterprise I could only marvel at. Two shiny stock cars sat in the center of the room surrounded by engine bays filled with metal tool chests, benches, and equipment that I couldn’t hope to understand the purpose of. Cars were in various stages of production, and there were guys wearing coveralls working at each one. A large garage bay door was closed at the back of the facility. The air conditioning cranked. Music blared, and the lights were bright, hanging from the high ceiling that had about six sky lights in it.
Above, a glass office revealed my new boss inside. A second floor extended halfway across the building, and I could make out what looked like more offices and maybe a conference room up top. Still dumbfounded, I made my way along the shiny, gray concrete floor toward the steel steps. A few of the mechanics glanced up at me, but no one tried to stop me.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I was standing in a reception area with comfortable looking couches and chairs. A television on the wall was muted but set to a news channel. And a knock-out blonde sat behind a desk. She rose when she saw me. I recognized her style and attention to detail in the fine lines of her lavender suit, her heels the same color. Nothing was out of place, not her makeup, not her clothing, not her hair. A quick glance at her hand showed no rings on important fingers. This was exactly the type of woman I saw in my head when I conjured my dream girl. She was a work of genetic art. And yet, as I stood there appreciating the look of a stunning woman, I felt no stirring in my blood, no particular physical interest to speak of.
“Simon Webster?” she asked, extending her hand with her perfectly manicured fingernails.
“Yes.” I nodded and reached my hand out to take hers. Her skin was soft, of course. I swear this girl popped right out of my brain and yet, no spark. No nothing. This was befuddling.
“Did you find us all right?” Pulling her hand back, she clasped them in front of her.
“I did,” I said. “But I didn’t realize I was looking for a barn. This is ... unique.”
Her laugh was lyrical, and still I was not enchanted. I didn’t understand. My dream girl was literally standing before me.
“It is. The property is owned by Ryan’s sister, Jackie, and her husband. Their brother runs the farm and uses the first barn, but this one was just sitting here. When Ryan decided to move his business up here from New York, he hired an architect to design a facility that met all his needs but didn’t stand out. He didn’t want to ruin the aesthetic of the property. It’s unconventional but isn’t an eye sore, and it keeps us well hidden. Not only are there extremely expensive tools in here, but the cars themselves are w
orth a fortune. Of course, our security is designed by the best in the business, so we’re not too worried about being messed with. And then there’s the fact that the chief of police is Ryan’s brother-in-law.”
“Handy,” I said, pushing my hands into my pockets and rocking back on my heels. Yup, small town life. Everyone knows everyone.
“I’m Jamie, Ryan’s assistant. But really, I’m more like an office manager around here,” she said, walking behind her desk and picking up a blue leather folder with the company logo on it before handing it across the desk to me. “This is all the paperwork we need you to fill out. You don’t have to do it now. You can take it home and bring it back in the morning. We’ll go in and speak with Ryan now, and then I’ll show you to your office. I’ve procured all the technology you requested and had it set up, but if anything’s wrong, please let me know, and I’ll get someone on it immediately. We do staff an IT guy, but he’s part-time, and I’ll have to call him in.”
“Okay.” It’s all I could come up with. This girl had it together.
“You can set your own hours. We’re here about eight-thirty a.m. to five p.m. Some of the mechanics are in real early and leave in the early afternoon; others come in a little later in the morning and prefer to work into the evening, but Ryan keeps normal business hours, as do I, and our accounting team. The engineers are a little different. There’s three of them. One likes to work from home a few days a week to save on childcare costs. One sticks to normal business hours. And Maggie, our lead engineer, well, she’s just something different entirely. She’s a bit of a workaholic.”
I nodded. This Maggie and I were probably going to get along famously. Without my family to go home to, and not knowing anyone in this town, I imagined I was about to become a workaholic, too.
Jamie came out from behind her desk and motioned me toward Ryan’s door. As we entered, Ryan looked up from his computer. When he saw me, he pushed back from the desk a bit and leaned back in his chair. The office was all glass and looked out over the production floor. Another large screen television hung on his wall but was tuned to ESPN. Opposite the television sat a black leather couch. To one side was a small bar cart stocked with what looked like very expensive liquor. To the other side was a small refrigerator and coffee station.
