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  “Chicken, mashed potatoes, and veggies,” Mom replied.

  “What are we talking about?” He dragged his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame over to the sink and squirted bright purple soap into his palms.

  “Assholes writing me off,” I cut right to the chase.

  He snorted.

  Mom sighed. “Not at all. I’m simply worried that someone, somewhere, will make her question her worth.”

  Dad shut off the tap and pulled the towel off her shoulder. “Jamie? Question her worth? As what? A person or a mechanic?”

  “Right now…Mechanic.”

  Dad blinked at her, then turned his salt-and-pepper stubble-dotted face toward me. “Sunshine, if they do, throw your wrench in their face. I’ll pay your bail.”

  I grinned. “While you’re in such a good mood, I applied for a job at the old garage.”

  He pulled a beer from the fridge. Without blinking, he replied, “Well, he’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t hire you, sunshine.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter Two – Jamie

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: RE: Job Application

  Jamie,

  Apologies for the late reply. If you’re free, I can see you at 11.30 today for an interview.

  Please bring ID, a hard copy of your resume, and a certification of your qualifications.

  Best,

  Dexter Ryne

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: RE: Job Application

  Mr. Ryne,

  Thank you for your response. I’ll be at your garage just before 11.30 today with your requested materials.

  Many thanks,

  Jamie

  ***

  I pulled into the courtyard of Ryne Garages. Shivers crept down my spine as goosebumps trickled over my skin. It just felt wrong—all of it.

  It shouldn’t have a sign that read Ryne Garages. It should have been Bell Garages. The walls should have been white and not yellow. The plant outside the front door should have been a cactus and not…whatever the hell that mess was.

  It was easy to pick.

  It was everything that was wrong with my family’s name not being in lights over this garage.

  Whatever.

  I’d look past it, walk in, and get this interview over and done with. I had to. Even if my mom’s words constantly rang in my mind.

  What if my passion was killed?

  I was so sure it wouldn’t be. Some things were so deeply embedded in one’s soul there was no pulling them out—like a staple gun to the butt—and I knew cars were that for me.

  They were fucking everything. Life and soul and oxygen. I loved them more than I knew how to love anything. It was so natural to me.

  But what if someone possessed the power to break that?

  It was a deep and irrational fear, but a legitimate one all the same.

  And now, I was faced with it. It was right in front of me. A big-ass threat I didn’t know if I was mentally equipped to deal with.

  I pulled my keys from the ignition.

  No, I was equipped. I was ready. I’d lived my life with a refusal to make anyone make me feel like I was worth less than I knew I was, and I wasn’t going to change that now.

  I was Jamie Fucking Bell. I was a mechanic’s daughter. I’d once painted a car with motor oil on an order form at the age of three, and I’d once written an English essay while cross-legged on the hood of a ’69 Mustang that was being restored for my uncle.

  There wasn’t a damn thing anyone could teach me about a car that I didn’t already know.

  I bled motor oil. I breathed the rancid air of gas. And I fought every day against the discrimination of that.

  And I was tired of people putting me down because I had a pair of boobs.

  I got out of my car and slammed the door behind me. Something that would make my father cringe—two years restoring the aforementioned ’69 Mustang was a proud moment of his, and although the teal-blue car had always been destined for me, it didn’t mean he liked when I “hurt that baby.”

  I got it, but I was fired up.

  I was ready for this interview, and I sure as fucking hell wasn’t going to walk out without proving to this guy I was more than worthy of his job.

  ***

  I slowly pushed open the door to the garage and stepped into the uncomfortably familiar reception area. A bell over the door dinged, and when I looked up, I saw a tiny, brass bell—much smaller than the one my grandfather had installed years ago.

  The noise was much nicer, that was for sure.

  I smoothed my hands over my dress as I approached the counter. There was crashing at the back, followed by a rough grunt of a cuss word.

  A smile tugged at my lips as I cast my gaze around the room. It was all so clean and tidy. There was a scarlet-red sofa beneath the windows, and a mahogany coffee table scattered with magazines stood just in front of it. A large, leafy plant occupied the corner, its leaves just tickling the corner of a retro car sales poster pinned to the wall.

  “Jesus,” came a low mutter from behind me.

  I turned with a start, my hands coming together silently in front of my stomach.

  The door behind the counter shut, and when I blinked, I was able to focus on the guy standing in front of me.

  Who was, quite possibly, the most handsome guy I’d seen in a long-ass time.

  My gaze wandered over him. Navy blue overalls covered his legs, and he’d tied the sleeves at his waist. A white t-shirt hugged an obviously muscular body, and everything from his large hands to his toned biceps were splattered with oil and grease.

  I lifted my gaze another couple inches higher. To his face. To the five o’clock shadow that dotted his jaw. Full lips. Bright-blue eyes surrounded by unfairly thick, dark eyelashes. And a head full of hair the exact same shade of brown as his lashes.

  He wiped at his forehead, pushing the hair from his eyes—and swiping oil across his skin. “Sorry about that. Slipped on some water and kicked the corner of a tool box.” He grimaced. “What can I do for you, darlin’?”

  “I have an appointment with Dexter Ryne?”

  He held out his hands. “You’re looking at him.”

  Well, that was easy.

  “I’m Jamie Bell.” I offered my hand over the counter.

  Dexter Ryne froze. Slowly, his gaze moved over my face as if he were drawing a sketch in the air with his eyes, taking in every inch of me. Then, it moved to my hand.

  Here we go again…

  I let my hand fall back to my side and suppressed a sigh. “You emailed me yesterday? About the interview? I have my resume right here.” I pulled it out of my unzipped purse and set it on the counter between us.

  He dropped his attention to that, blinked, and shook his head. “Jamie Bell. Sure. But…You know this is for a job out the back, right?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “I’m not in the habit of applying for jobs I’m not qualified to do, Mr. Ryne,” I replied sweetly. “I’m fully aware of that fact.”

  “It’s Dex. Mr. Ryne is my father…and my grandfather.” He eyed me speculatively, then snatched up my resume. “I wasn’t aware women worked as mechanics.”

  “Then I’m thrilled I’ve been able to enlighten you that we exist.” I tried to stay sweet, but I couldn’t. A hint of sarcasm tinged my words.

  He glanced up, raising one eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he left me standing here while he scanned my resume.

  “This doesn’t say you’re a woman,” he said, putting it back down.

  “Do you say you’re a man on your resume?”

  “My name gives it away.”

  “I’ll be sure to inform my parents they should have given me a name that hinted more at my gender,” I replied dryly.

  His lips twitched, but whatever smile was forming, he fought against. “I’m not sure I’m a fan of your attitud
e.”

  I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Then we have something in common, because I don’t much like yours.”

  Both his eyebrows shot up. “What experience do you have?”

  “I worked weekends from fourteen until I graduated. Became an apprentice the next day, and worked up until a year ago. I’ve since been working from home.”

  “Why?”

  “My father had to sell his garage.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I struggled to get work.”

  Would he figure it out?

  Nothing that looked like recognition flitted across his expression, so the answer was probably no.

  “Right.” Short and sharp, I knew he didn’t buy the truth he was being fed.

  Prejudice. It was written all over him. I could hear it in his words, I could sense it in the way he held himself, and I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me.

  The slightly frizzy haired brunette in the tailored black dress and high heels, wearing the light, gray sweater and carrying the Coach purse.

  I didn’t look like I belonged in a garage at all. The only thing that gave it away was my unpolished, trimmed nails.

  What? You couldn’t fit a new gearbox if you had talons on the ends of your fingers, and nothing frustrated me more than chipped polish after working.

  Silence held between us for a minute. Dex, as he wanted to be called, said nothing. He didn’t even stare at me. He looked—glared—at my resume. The battle he fought was obvious.

  He was new to town, and Facebook showed he’d been advertising for two weeks.

  There was nobody nearby who was a mechanic.

  I was his first and only application.

  I leaned against the counter, resting my fingers against its edge. “Mr. Ryne—”

  “Is my father,” he replied.

  Well, that much was for sure. His politeness made me want to refer to him as “son,” never mind mister. And he was definitely older than me.

  “Dex,” I said, adding extra emphasis. “If you have an issue with hiring me, say so right now so I can stop wasting my time with this conversation.”

  “What makes you think I have an issue with you?”

  Flatly, I stared at him. “I’m a woman.”

  He waved his hand, slapping my resume down off the counter. The sheets scattered to the floor. “Never worked with one that wasn’t on reception. Never come across one that didn’t belong on reception.”

  My heels tapped against the linoleum as I walked around the counter and, for the second time, held out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Dexter Ryne. My name is Jamie Bell, and I most definitely do not belong on reception.”

  Once again, he glanced at my hand. He held his up. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty dress, darlin’.”

  I snatched his hand out of the air and dragged it down between us, shaking it firmly. Eyes still on his, I said, “A little oil doesn’t bother me, darlin’.”

  He held my hand for a moment, our gazes locked, before he ground out, “I guess you better let yourself out the back, then.” He let go of my hand, then leaned over the counter and peered down at my heels. “Sorry, I don’t have another pair of shoes for you to wear.”

  “No bother.” I unhooked the bar-like counter and stepped to within inches of his body. “I’ve changed tires in higher heels than these.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed at my mouth. And I didn’t care.

  If Dex Ryne was going to come into my town and run his mouth at me, I was going to teach him a thing or two about small-town, Southern girls.

  I was sweet as pie.

  Until you pissed me off.

  Then…

  Well, then, I’d shut you down quicker than a hooker shut down a guy after a free blowie.

  “Are we going?” I asked when he didn’t move.

  He turned and yanked the door open. It slammed back against the stopper installed on the floor and swung right back to closed.

  I stilled and let out a sigh.

  But hey—this was closer than I’d ever been before.

  I pulled open the door. Immediately, I was hit with the rich scent of fuel and oil. Of metal and grease.

  Of everything I was comfortable with.

  Not caring at all, I took the step down onto the workshop floor and looked around.

  It hadn’t changed a bit.

  No matter what they’d done to the outside, the inside was the same. The tool racks commanded the same wall. The work counters commanded the same, and the doors to the bathroom and staff room hadn’t been replaced.

  They’d re-painted everything, including the red floor, but it had all been futile. Tools and oil and paint covered every surface. It was every inch the garage it was the day we sold it.

  It even had Mrs. Hawkins’ little Ford in the corner. The damn car was always in for something or another—we’d even ‘fixed’ her lack of fuel issue before.

  In a weird way, it was good to see that some things didn’t change.

  It was definitely strange to see someone else’s things here, though. Almost disconcerting not to look in the far corner and see my father’s beloved tool unit and the old oil sign that used to hang above it. Now, that corner was bare.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Dex eyed me speculatively—almost cruelly, actually. There was a dark glint in his gaze that sent a shiver down my spine.

  I looked out of place right now, but properly dressed, I’d be home.

  “This is it,” he said, waving his arm around the garage. Slowly, he gave me the tour. Showed me where everything was, and I hummed as if it was all unfamiliar to me.

  When it was done, I rested my hand against the side of a toolbox. “You look like you’d rather be anyone else.”

  “I’d rather you be a man,” he said coolly.

  “Does it matter? I’m just as qualified as any other person would be.” I folded my arms across my chest, and the strap of my purse cut into the crook of my elbow. “There’s nothing any man could do that I can’t.”

  “I’ll need to see your qualifications.”

  “You’ll have to find the certification in the mess you made of my resume,” I ground out.

  He grunted and turned on the balls of his feet, going back to the reception area.

  Screw this. Never mind me being a woman—this man was insufferable. He was beyond sexist and prejudiced. I’d never met anyone quite like it.

  What I should have done was told him thanks, but no thanks.

  What I wanted to do was prove him wrong.

  I joined him in the reception with one last, longing glance into the garage. He’d picked up all the sheets of paper and was sorting them on the desk.

  “Did you find them?” I asked.

  He grunted again.

  Oh, boy. I’d found proof that cavemen did still exist.

  I held out my hand for the resume.

  Bright blue eyes found mine, and he handed it over. “I’m gonna level with you, Ms. Bell—”

  “Jamie.”

  “—This isn’t going to work. It’s not because you’re not qualified. You are. But honestly, I’m not comfortable working with a woman in my garage.”

  My lips pursed as he continued speaking.

  “While you’re suitably qualified, I question whether or not you’re strong enough for most of the tasks required.”

  Don’t speak, Jamie. Take it and leave.

  “I’m sorry, but thank you for coming in anyway.”

  Then, the jerk had the audacity to smile at me.

  Fucking smile.

  “See, all I heard there was a bunch of excuses about why you can’t have a woman in your garage.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

  Dex faltered, his smile dropping. “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t believe you at all.” I leaned against the counter. “I think you’re afraid I’ll go back there and prove you and your stupid, outdated ideas wrong. I think you�
��re worried I’ll be a better mechanic than you are.”

  His eyebrows shot up. Amusement flashed in his eyes, but it was the wry curve of his lips as they formed a smirk that said I’d hit a home run with that. “Very astute, Jamie. And completely incorrect.”

  “So, why not hire me? If you’re not afraid of being proven wrong, what do you have to lose? Apart from a bit of an apparently over-sized ego, of course.”

  He laughed and folded his muscular arms. He leaned against the doorframe, the ghost of the laugh on his lips, and studied me. “Are you really trying to argue your way into this job?”

  “No. I’m trying to get to the root of the real reason you don’t want a woman in your workshop, and all I’ve got is that you’re genuinely afraid that I’ll be too damn good.”

  All right. I was totally tooting my own horn, but damn it. I was damn good at my job. I’d learned from the best, from two generations of mechanics, and I wasn’t going to allow him to demean me just because I made him uncomfortable.

  Dex rubbed his hand over his chin. His stare was intense, but I held his gaze. I wasn’t going to back down.

  If he thought I was, he was very much mistaken.

  “All right.” He dropped his arms and walked over to me. “I’ll make you deal, darlin’.”

  I waited.

  His lips quirked. “Since you’re so insistent, I’ll give you three weeks. If, at the end of three weeks, you’ve proven me wrong and you can hack it, I’ll give you a permanent job.”

  When he paused, I said, “What’s the catch?”

  Resting his forearms on the counter, he leaned forward, smirk still in place. “If I don’t think you’ve done enough, your job will be on reception.”

  I glared at him.

  “Of course,” he said, standing up with a shit-eatingly smug glint in his eye, “If you don’t think you can prove how good you are in three weeks, you don’t have to accept.”

  The bastard had taken my words, flipped them, and thrown them right back at me.

  Chapter Three – Dex

  Jamie Bell stepped toward the counter. With her stunningly bright blue eyes fixed on mine, she said, “I won’t need three weeks.”