Set the Night on Fire

by Laura Trentham

  “What the— I can be charming.”

  “Sure you can,” Jackson said with the air of humoring a child.

  “Get your butt back to work.” There was no actual heat behind the words.

  Jackson shrugged, retrieved the hood Mack had welded, and retreated to the grinder.

  Mack gathered himself and paced slower to his office. Jackson was right. He should deal with Ella Boudreaux like he did with any client. Detached and professional.

  Wyatt gave him a pat on his shoulder on his way back to the garage floor. Mack rounded the desk. A hope that she was surfing the internet for funny cat videos died a fiery death. She was deep into the garage’s accounts. His cool detachment evaporated. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ella’s blue-framed glasses did something startling to her eyes, making them appear bigger and even bluer. “I’m reviewing your spreadsheets.”

  “Why?”

  “You could streamline your accounts payable, you know. Integrate them into a program designed to keep a real-time flow of money.”

  He used spreadsheets to keep track because that’s what his father had begrudgingly moved to when he was forced to give up carbon copies. Mack had been meaning to look into software but with everything else going on, it kept slipping down his priority list. “I know there are better programs out there.”

  “Then why don’t you change?” She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow in his direction. With her dark hair off her neck in an artfully messy updo she looked softer, and the blue glasses lent her a playful vibe.

  “I’m not adverse to change,” he said hesitantly. Actually, he was. Change was rarely for the better. Change meant growing up and complications and uncertainty.

  “How about I put together an overview of the software choices and let you pick?”

  The moment was loaded. If he agreed, did it mean he was giving in? Letting her in? On the other hand, giving her something menial might keep her occupied.

  “Our system has worked fine for years.”

  “I’m sure it has.” She swiveled around in his chair as if she owned it—technically he supposed she owned a wheel—crossed her legs and gestured over the piles of papers on the desk. “But I can make it work better than fine. How much time do you spend doing paperwork when you could be using your talent on the cars?”

  Behind her guileless sincerity, he sensed she was buttering him up if not outright manipulating him. Before he could decide how harsh his put-down should be, River bounded into the office and scrambled up his chest to give his face a lick.

  Ella gave a yelping scream and brought her legs up to her chest as if getting her feet off the floor would offer protection from a fifty-plus-pound dog. The devil on his shoulder urged him to let River sniff and lick all over her.

  The expression on her face had him grabbing hold of River’s dangling leash. The casual sophistication and enviable confidence had been wiped away by fear. No, more than fear. Terror. But why? River was a hairy ball of energy and good will.

  Willa came around the corner, carrying a cardboard box, out of breath. “Sorry. She got away from me.”

  Mack sat in one of the chairs he kept for customers or for his brothers when they wanted to talk or hang out and rubbed River’s head and chin. The dog put a paw on his knee and narrowed her eyes. She’d been a scrawny, mangy thing when Willa had adopted her a few months before. As if River could sense her good fortune to land with Willa and at the garage, she was sweet and loving and gentle. Unless Willa was being threatened.

  Ella regained her composure bit by bit, first lowering one leg and then the other. Her hands unclenched from the armrests and, while still tense, her face shed the mask of fear for a more guarded one.

  “Those the shirts?” he asked Willa so as to give Ella time to gather herself.

  “Sure are, and they are awesome. Sutton did a great job on the design.” Willa pulled one off the top and held it up.

  They had voted to make River the official mascot of Abbott Brothers Garage and Restoration. A stylized picture of her was on the chest pocket along with their name. Willa flipped the shirt around where a larger black-and-white drawing of River was on the back, along with their logo.

  “Those are cute. How are you going to sell them?” Ella’s gaze moved from the dog to the shirt and back again.

  “Here in the shop to customers, I guess,” Mack said. “Can you put River in the barn for now, Willa?”

  “Sure thing.” She dropped the shirt on top of the box and took River’s leash from Mack, her curiosity pinging between them much like her gaze as she backed out.

  Once River was out of sight, Ella collapsed back into the chair as if a puppeteer had cut her strings.

  “Are you only afraid of dogs or all animals?”

  “What do you mean?” She picked up a paper on his desk detailing a fender replacement for a ’72 Mustang and hid her face.

  “Did you have a bad experience with a dog?”

  “It’s nothing.” She rose and sashayed around the desk.

  In the close space, she brushed his arm on her way by, and when she bent over the box of T-shirts to root around inside, her ass was eye level. Her ass had nothing to do with anything. Having a nice ass was a simple physical attribute, like being bald. Yet, he was having a hard time stopping himself from admiring the way her jeans hugged her spectacular attribute. He swallowed.

  “Good quality cotton.” She straightened and popped a hip to hold up a shirt, examining it.

  “Sutton wouldn’t allow anything but.” His voice sounded like it needed to be sanded down. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “I’m glad to see you didn’t skimp on materials. How much are you paying per shirt?” The flap of a shirt popped his eyes open. She held it up to her body.

  “Seven dollars.”

  “Not bad. You can easily sell them for fifteen. How about online sales?”

  “Hadn’t considered it.”

  “You should.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  “Have you done anything like that before?”

  Her gaze dropped, her glasses camouflaging her eyes. “No.”

  “What exactly are your qualifications, by the way? You have a business or marketing degree?”

  She fiddled with the hem of the shirt for a second before spinning around and shoving it back in the box. “My qualifications are a twenty-five percent stake in the business.”

  “So your only demonstrable skill is throwing your ex’s money around?”

  Any vulnerability he sensed in her vanished in a blast of anger. All directed at him. His insides churned. It felt like his first time at bat in Little League, a mixture of excitement and nerves.

  “Make no mistake, I deserved every penny I got from my divorce.” Her sarcasm covered something darker. Something that had Mack on edge.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “All that matters is that I’m invested in the garage and ready to help. If you’ll let me.” She stared him down.

  He pushed the questions he wanted to ask away. Her ex wasn’t any of his business. Maybe Jackson and Wyatt were right. A few mundane tasks would see her bored and ready to move on to a more exciting endeavor.

  “Fine. Get a list of software options together, and I’ll review them. And if you want to see how difficult it will be to sell T-shirts on our website, feel free to look into that as well.”

  A light sparkled in her blue eyes and her smile spoke of satisfaction. Even though he felt like he’d run up a white flag and given in, he couldn’t hate himself for putting that look on her face.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some estimates to send.” He gestured to the computer.

  “Of course. Go right ahead. I didn’t mean to monopolize your computer.” She stepped aside and let him scoot around his desk to plop in his chair, still warm from her aforementioned spectacular asset.

  Mack turned h
is back and opened the first unread message in his email. The words blurred together. His senses were attuned to the woman behind him. She hadn’t left yet. He snuck a glance. Ella had perched on the edge of the leather chair, a sleek steel gray laptop open on the corner of his desk.

  Mack swiveled around. “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “Here?”

  She made a Vanna White gesture around the room. “This is a place of business, is it not? Don’t worry, you won’t even know I’m here.”

  Mack tapped his fingers on the desk. “There’s a break room you could use.”

  She flashed him a smile over the screen of the laptop before returning to tap on the keys. “No, thanks. I’m comfortable here. Plus, if I have questions, you’re only a few feet away.”

  He needed a mile. Or a town. Hell, maybe even a state between them before he’d be able to concentrate. But, she had taken over his office like a squatter. A beautiful squatter whose every breath registered on the Richter scale. Retreating to the shop floor to work on the Datsun would give the impression he couldn’t handle the pressure.

  An hour passed in silence. Mack ticked the minutes off on the clock in the corner of his computer screen. He got the estimate sent and a few vendor emails answered, but otherwise was unusually unproductive. He’d have to work late to catch up, but it wasn’t like he had any pressing social engagements.

  “Okay, I have it narrowed it down to two programs.” Ella rose and came around the desk with a piece of paper.

  “Already?”

  “The learning curve will be the worst part. It would be wise to maintain your spreadsheets throughout the transition.”

  She leaned over the back of his chair, put the paper down, and looked over his shoulder. A lock of her hair had come loose and fallen forward, tickling his jaw. He stared at the paper, her neat handwriting streaming together into nonsense. Her scent was light and fleeting, and like the flash of a firefly, he wanted to give chase.

  His breaths grew short and shallow. She was too close and had already wormed her way into the garage in an unexpected way. The further she burrowed, the higher the risk of finding rot. A sense of claustrophobia came over him in a rush. He had to escape.

  He slapped the paper facedown on his desk and spun his chair around. A Mustang he wasn’t sure was worth the trouble awaited an estimate in the next parish over. He could leave now and get himself together by driving the back roads. It was a convenient excuse.

  “Can it wait? I have an appointment to give an estimate.”

  She stepped back, her eyes narrowed as if sensing an attack coming. “Sure. There’s no hurry.”

  He stepped to the door and surveyed the shop floor. They were busy, and guilt niggled at his selfish retreat. A Ford sedan required an oil change before they could clear the second bay, but Wyatt and Jackson and Willa were elbow deep in more important projects and it was almost lunch. He could knock it out in twenty minutes tops and clear his conscience. Or …

  He swung his gaze to Ella. It would be a test of sorts. “You know car repair basics, right? Fluid checks. Tire changes. That sort of thing.”

  “I know some stuff.” Suspicion laced her voice.

  “I figured. Why else would you buy into a garage like this?” He gestured to the work area. “I’ve got to head out for that estimate, and the boys are busy on high-dollar restoration projects. We’re in a pinch. You wouldn’t mind helping us out, would you?”

  “With what?”

  “We need bay two cleared out. All the Ford needs is an oil change. Should be simple. You mind taking care of it?”

  “An oil change. I’m not sure…” Her gaze darted around the desk as if on the hunt for an excuse.

  “An oil change is the easiest thing in the world and shouldn’t be a problem for someone with your obvious knowledge. I was pretty impressed with the stats about the Datsun you reeled off yesterday.”

  He could almost feel her panic and hesitated, but what was the worst that would happen? Either she completed the oil change or she would learn a lesson and decide the garage wasn’t the place for her. It was a win-win.

  Chapter Three

  Trepidation streaked through Ella, destroying the relatively calm waters the two of them had been treading. Her knowledge about the Datsun was coming back to bite her in the butt. Speaking of butts, that’s where Mack was pulling this silly test from. And that’s what it was—a test.

  His ultimate goal was to drive her away, towing a heap of humiliation with her. She’d hoped his acquiescence to her plans for the accounting programs had signaled a turning point, but it seemed she had pushed too hard and now he was acting like a bear defending its den.

  The question was what to do about it. Should she own up to the fact she had never performed an oil change or brazen it out?

  Ella hadn’t excelled in school, but she was scrappy and determined and didn’t back down from a fight. That particular attribute had gotten her in trouble more times than not, but she had a feeling if she didn’t take up the challenge, he would take the advantage and run roughshod over her like the proverbial Mack truck.

  “You’re going to be gone?”

  “For a couple of hours, yes.”

  With the help of a manual and the internet, she could surely get the job done in under two hours. Imagining the look on his face when he returned and she’d finished had her asking, “What sort of oil do you want me to use?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer but turned on her heel and walked out of his office to the shop floor. It was empty. She glanced to the clock and wished she hadn’t. It was lunchtime, and her stomach growled on cue.

  “5W-20. Oil is in the storeroom.” He pointed to a door in the back of the shop. “There’s a clipboard hanging to the side. Make sure to note what and how much you use, so we can reorder on time.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.” He planted his boots, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared down at her.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” She made a shooing motion with her hands. The last thing she needed was to have a concentration-busting wrecking ball named Mack hovering over her while she fumbled through her first oil change.

  Her brother had promised to teach her after finishing his first deployment. It had never happened. But she’d watched him more than once, and it hadn’t seemed complicated. Plus, she had a weapon. The internet.

  He walked away, but not toward the door. Keeping her gaze on him as one did an enemy, she studied him. His movements were jerky with anger or impatience or maybe something else altogether. He opened a door, revealing a closet stuffed with blue shop towels and jackets and sundry items for the bathroom. He grabbed something off the hook on the back of the door and returned.

  “Here.” He shoved the gray fabric toward her. She flinched, but took it automatically, holding it to her chest as if it could protect her.

  But she didn’t need protection from Mack, did she? He wasn’t her ex-husband. Mack met her eyes for only a second. Was that regret that flashed? Yes, he was gruff and infuriating and stubborn, but he wasn’t cold and unemotional. Instead of hiding his frustration until it was too late to get out of the way, Mack wore his emotions like a placard on his chest. He banged through the door to the parking lot, leaving her alone.

  She exhaled, long and slow, not even aware she’d been holding her breath. She shook out whatever Mack had given her. It was a pair of gray coveralls like she’d seen Wyatt and Jackson and even Willa wear while they worked.

  She ran a thumb over the embroidered badge over the left pocket. Mack. The thread of the k was fraying a little at the top, and the material was worn and soft. She retreated to the break room to slip off her shoes and climb into the coveralls.

  It felt strangely intimate to zip herself into his coveralls, his name falling on the curve of her breast. She burrowed her nose in the collar and took a deep breath. Under the oil and garage smell, she caught a hint of the man himself and shivered.<
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  The coveralls were enormous on her, and she rolled up the pant legs and sleeves so many times it was comical. She checked the shop floor, but it was empty. Everyone was taking a lunch break. Perfect.

  Pulling up the internet on her phone, she skimmed through the steps of an oil change. Her hunger turned to nerves. It looked way more complicated than she had anticipated. She would take it one step at a time and hope for the best. Could she break the sedan by screwing this up?

  Why hadn’t she just admitted to not knowing how? Pride. Both a blessing and a curse—too much of it ran through her veins. Her pride had gotten her out of a nightmare marriage. But, it had also gotten her into her current mess.

  One step at a time, she repeated to herself. She gathered the proper oil and filter from the storeroom, making sure to make a note on the clipboard. Step one was to jack the car up. It was already on risers, thank the Lord. Draining the oil was next. The cartoon drawing accompanying the instructions showed a receptacle of some sort.

  She spotted a flat, black plastic canister against the wall that niggled her memories. Peering inside, she sniffed and ran a finger around the rim. Looked and smelled like oil. She dragged it under the car with her. Now she needed to find the oil drain plug.

  She looked at her phone, up at the undercarriage, and back again. It wasn’t as straightforward as the picture indicated, but eventually, she located what appeared to be the oil pan and plug. She needed to use the boxy end of the wrench to remove the plug.

  She lost some time searching for the correct-size wrench. The fifth one she tried slipped over the bolt snuggly. “I got you now, you little bugger.”

  According to the website, she was only supposed to loosen the bolt with the wrench, then remove the plug by hand. After loosening the bolt, she worked at the plug. It was stuck. Or maybe she hadn’t done it correctly. She repositioned herself and tugged harder.

  The plug popped out and the oil flowed. On her. On the floor. Only partly in the canister. She gasped and shoved the canister opening under the gush. Her elbow slipped on the oily floor, and she banged her head against a pipe.