The woman gave him a sweet smile, but Ford noted that her eyes—the only part of her that was clearly visible—were still glittering as she did.
“Like I said.” She pointed at the desk. “You’ve already put me behind. So for the love of God, if you want your damn car fixed, go put your keys over on that bench and fill out the form.”
“I can’t believe I’m stuck here,” Ford muttered as he turned to do as the woman said, and he heard a snort of laughter that made him turn back to her.
“Actually, you’ll be stuck at the café down the street.” Now her expression was mocking. She clearly didn’t think much more of him than he did of her. “I don’t have a waiting room.”
With the smooth movement of someone who had much practice, the strange person lowered herself back down to the rolling thing—what was it called?—and again disappeared beneath the Contour.
Ford’s mind quickly sorted through words and phrases, searching for a witty comeback that would put this impudent woman in her place.
He had nothing. Nothing that would convey the deference he was used to receiving to this grease-covered imp who clearly didn’t care.
Scowling, he stalked over to the workbench and all but threw his keys down on the unfinished wooden surface. He took up the stubby-nosed pencil and the order form, then shook his head and instead pulled out a business card, which had all of his relevant information. He clipped it to the form.
Marchande Motors
Proprietor, Beth Marchande
So she was not just the mechanic—she owned the whole garage. Ford didn’t quite know what to do with that information—the woman didn’t fit into any of the preconceived slots he had to classify the female of the species. And he needed to classify—to classify everything.
What was life without order?
It seemed that this strange, vanilla-scented woman would force him to take a taste and find out.
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Hawkeye
ISBN-13: 9781488082535
No Strings
Copyright © 2018 by Cara Lockwood
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