Miss Mechanic

by Emma Hart

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter One – Jamie

  Chapter Two – Jamie

  Chapter Three – Dex

  Chapter Four – Jamie

  Chapter Five – Jamie

  Chapter Six – Dex

  Chapter Seven – Jamie

  Chapter Eight – Dex

  Chapter Nine – Jamie

  Chapter Ten – Jamie

  Chapter Eleven – Dex

  Chapter Twelve – Jamie

  Chapter Thirteen – Dex

  Chapter Fourteen – Jamie

  Chapter Fifteen – Dex

  Chapter Sixteen – Jamie

  Chapter Seventeen – Dex

  Chapter Eighteen – Jamie

  Chapter Nineteen – Jamie

  Chapter Twenty – Dex

  Chapter Twenty-One – Jamie

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Dex

  Chapter Twenty-Three – Jamie

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Jamie

  Chapter Twenty-Five – Dex

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Dex

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – Jamie

  Epilogue – Dex

  COMING SOON

  About the Author

  Books by Emma Hart

  Miss Mechanic

  by Emma Hart

  Copyright © by Emma Hart 2017

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design and Formatting by Emma Hart

  Chapter One – Jamie

  “He was the length of the Amazon river and the girth of the Missouri.”

  I blinked at my best friend. She could sit there and tell me this about the cock of her latest conquest, but it didn’t change the fact he’d stiffed her and not left his number.

  And by stiffed, I don’t mean their dinner bill.

  But, I didn’t say that. All I’d get in response would be the reminder that if she was having one-night stands, she didn’t want their number.

  “That would mean a lot more to me if I knew anything about the girth of the Missouri,” I replied, wiping my hands on a rag. “There. I filled your oil. I still don’t know how you’ve been driving for eight years and don’t know how to change your oil.”

  Haley grinned, her blue eyes twinkling. “I have you, James. I don’t need to know how to change my oil.”

  I held back the eye-roll that wanted to escape. “One day, I won’t be here to do it for you.” I unhooked the hood of her Honda and pushed it back down into place with a bang that echoed off the walls.

  “You’ll always be here. Stop that.” She tapped her fingers against the hood and it reverberated throughout my garage. “Thanks, by the way. Twenty bucks?”

  I waved my hand at her. “I’ve never charged you for an oil change and I’m not about to start.”

  “Well, if a pizza shows up here around six tonight, that’s your payment.”

  “And as always, I will accept without argument.” I grinned and closed the drawer of my toolbox.

  “Damn right you will.” She locked the car, making the lights flash an obnoxious bright-white, and tucked the keys into the pocket of her sweats. “Want a coffee?”

  “Need a coffee,” I corrected, finally getting the last remnants of oil off my palm. I threw the cloth on top of my huge-ass toolbox and followed her inside to my kitchen.

  Haley had already hit the button on the machine that provided my lifeblood when I stepped inside. I pressed my left toes against my right heel and tugged off the Doc Marten boot that encased it, then did the same with the other foot. Kicking them back into the oil-coated garage, I shut the door and pulled off my socks.

  “So,” she started the moment the coffee machine stopped. “Did you see the ad on Facebook?”

  I leaned against the kitchen side and folded my arms. “The one for the Chinese-sized sweater or the horrid blackhead facemask?”

  She paused. “Well, both, but that wasn’t the one I was hinting at.”

  “I don’t do hints, Hales. Spit it out.”

  She put her mug under the machine. It spat to life, chugging out the coffee like it was a car running on low power. She stayed perfectly silent until the machine squirted out the last of the coffee for the cycle and she’d pulled her mug onto the marble countertop.

  “Haley.”

  “The guy who bought your dad’s garage is advertising for a new mechanic.”

  I almost dropped my mug.

  Instead of making a mess I had no desire to clean up, I set it down on the counter and slowly raised my gaze to meet hers. “For real?”

  She nodded. “For real. It was an ad in my feed this morning. He renamed it Ryne Garages or something like that. I bet you can search it on Facebook and find it.”

  I got up, grabbed my laptop from the living room, and took it back into the kitchen. I had it open and loading before I’d even set it on the table, and by the time my ass hit the chair, I’d logged into Windows and was bringing up my Chrome browser.

  Facebook loaded immediately.

  I typed “Ryne Garages” into the search bar and waited for it to load. The very first result pulled it up, so I clicked and waited for the page to populate.

  The first result held the address I knew so well.

  I hovered only a second before I clicked. The cover photo showed the ever-familiar building that was owned by my family for sixty years. Nothing had changed, not really. There’d been a repaint and a new sign put up, but the long-defunct gas station in the front courtyard had been left as I remembered it.

  Old, rusting, peeling. Pure, small-town charm of a bygone era.

  “You all right, James?”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s weird. Seeing it with someone else’s name on. It’s always been ours, but now…”

  “It’s been a year.”

  “And now we’re in trouble,” I said to her. “I get that I’m lucky to live in a house on land we own outright, but if this is open…” I paused and ran my fingers through my hair. “Dad set up in the garage here, but he still doesn’t have most of the stuff he needs to keep business smooth. If Ryne Garages is open, people will stop coming to us because that will be easier.”

  Haley grimaced. She knew the truth of my words. The only reason Dad and I had gone so long without working was because the Bell family—us—had been the only mechanics in town for eighty years.

  Same building. Same place. Same service.

  Until my ex-stepmother’s debt had caught up with her and cost us the business.

  As Dad had said—losing the business was better than losing our house. We could get jobs. Another house?

  The only good thing that had come out of that bullshit mess was the reconciliation of my parents.

  “Why don’t you apply?” Haley asked after a few minutes of silence. “You need a job, they need a mechanic… You know everyone in town.”

  I wrinkled my face. “I don’t know, Hales. Working in what used to be my family garage? Isn’t that weird?”

  “Did I or did I not buy you shit paper this week?”

  “Asking you for toilet paper wasn’t my finest moment,” I admitted. “And you didn’t have to buy it. I just needed a roll and my parents wouldn’t answer their phone.”

  She waggled her eyebrows.

  I pointed my finger at her. “No. Enough. We are not visiting that.”

  Haley laughed. She waved her hand in the direction of
my laptop. “Come on. Just apply. You need a job, and you don’t want to drive to get one. It’s literally on your doorstep.”

  I wavered. Little did she know that I’d applied for several jobs in nearby towns over the past few months. I’d been—obviously—unsuccessful, but not because my qualifications lacked.

  No.

  I was more than qualified.

  I was overlooked for one simple reason.

  I was a woman.

  And I was terrified the same thing would happen again.

  I tapped my nails against the trackpad of my laptop.

  I knew nothing about the people who’d bought it. Dad had refused to talk about it, and while he’s gotten a good price, the divorce had cost him all the money he’d made.

  I scrolled down the page to find the job ad Haley had seen. It was a couple of posts down, and I hit ‘see more’ to read the full offer.

  Mechanic Wanted

  Mechanic required at Ryne Garages. Located on the corner of Mountain Boulevard, Springbrook. Contact dex@rynegarages.com or call 415-112-1883 for more information and ask for Dexter Ryne.

  Haley leaned over the top of my laptop. “You found it?”

  I nodded briskly. “I don’t know. Do you not think it’s weird? Like, applying for a job in the garage I basically grew up in?”

  “Does it feel weird?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just try it. The worst that’s going to happen is that they already filled the position or you don’t get it.”

  I stared at her flatly. “There are no other mechanics in town. Unless someone from outside town applied and got it…”

  “Well, then, you have an excellent chance of being accepted, don’t you?”

  I groaned and rested my head in my hands. “I just…I don’t know. It feels really weird to do this.”

  She smacked her fist against the table, making me jump. “How much money do you have left in your savings account? And that doesn’t count the change down the back of the sofa.”

  Actually, that was a very good question.

  I held up one finger and opened online banking.

  Ten seconds later, I was staring at a very, very sad bank account.

  And I was closing that window, because man, that was depressing.

  “We’re not going to discuss this,” I said, opening Gmail instead.

  “You’re applying, aren’t you?” she asked, a smug smile creeping over her face.

  “I’m inquiring.”

  “Applying.”

  “Yes! All right, yes. God, I’m applying. There. Are you happy now?” I copied and pasted the email into the ‘To’ line and attached my resume.

  “Ecstatic.” She grinned.

  I flipped her the bird and, after typing a few lines, sent the email.

  ***

  I turned my key to lock my door. After the tell-tale click, I checked the handle to make sure and stuffed the keys in my pocket.

  Losing the garage a little over a year ago had made me appreciate things a lot more. One of those things was the land we owned on the edge of town. Between my grandparents and my parents, they’d paid it off, and we owned it outright.

  The small cottage I called home had been built for a member of staff to live in. It wasn’t huge—a living room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and one bathroom—but it was perfect for me. Dad had built the garage next door about ten years ago when it became apparent I was following in his footsteps and not Mom’s.

  She hadn’t been thrilled I’d chosen grease and oil over working with her in her restaurant.

  What could I say?

  I wasn’t really a people person, and there were a lot of people at the restaurant. Cars didn’t talk back or complain their chicken was too dry.

  No, I was thankful. Thankful that even after my ex-stepmom had put us in debt up to our eyeballs and drained Dad’s bank account, we still had a place to live.

  Thankful that, twenty-four hours after sending that email, I still hadn’t had a response.

  Weird, right?

  Maybe. But I figured that if I never got a response, I didn’t have to suffer the rejection I’d ultimately get because I was the proud owner of a vagina.

  Hell, at my last interview, I’d been informed they didn’t have a place on reception open and they were very sorry.

  I hadn’t even bothered. I’d told them I’d got the wrong building and went home.

  I rapped my knuckles against the glass of the back door twice before I pushed it open. “Hello?”

  “Jamie? Is that you?” Mom called from another room.

  “Are you expecting anyone else for dinner?” I shouted back, closing the door behind me.

  “Well,” she said, walking into the kitchen with a checked towel slung over her shoulder, “I did see Lou Porter earlier today…”

  I pointed my finger at her. “Don’t you dare. I am not dating Stuart again.”

  She burst into laughter, the melodic sound ringing through the room. “Don’t worry, honey. I don’t want you to date Stuart either.”

  I blew out a long breath and slipped onto a stool at the kitchen island. “Thank God for that. If I have to listen to another rendition of his ill-fated relationship with his bitch ex, I’m going to scoop out my eardrums with a bent paperclip.”

  “That’s more visual than I’d hoped for,” Mom said, whisking a full chicken out of the oven. She set it on the side in one swift movement, kicked the oven door shut, and threw the oven mitt over her left shoulder.

  Between that and the tea towel, she looked every bit the housewife. The apron didn’t help, either…

  “You’re welcome. Where’s Dad?”

  She walked to the fridge as steam rose from the chicken. “He’s in the garage, tinkering with that old Chevy truck he’s been playing with. I think he’s almost to the root of the problem.” She pulled out a bottle of wine and held it up, as if to ask me if I wanted it.

  I nodded.

  She slid it over to me along with a corkscrew.

  I got to work.

  “Why do you ask? Did you need him?”

  “No,” I said, working the corkscrew. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Mom set two wine glasses in front of me and leveled me with her blue eyes. “Which is?”

  “I applied for a job today.”

  “Where?”

  I eked out the cork. “The garage that used to be ours.”

  “Hoooooooey.” Mom blew out a long breath as she grabbed the neck of the bottle and poured two pathetic excuses for glasses of wine.

  She paused, bottle still in hand, and topped up both glasses.

  Well, that said a lot about what she thought about what I’d said.

  Mom was a lady—from wine to hemlines, if you could make her British, she’d be a damn royal with all her manners and etiquette.

  The fact she’d just poured a whole damn glass of wine… Well.

  She grabbed hers and took a big mouthful. Her cheeks puffed out as she held it in her mouth before swallowing it. “That’s…unexpected.”

  “No kidding. Haley saw the ad on Facebook and told me when I did her oil yesterday. They need a new mechanic, and it’s not like I have anything to lose.”

  A change from my thoughts of yesterday, I know, but whatever.

  I reserve the right to change my mind a hundred times a day.

  I am a woman.

  “You’re right,” Mom said, setting down her glass. “Don’t you worry that it’ll be weird?”

  “Honestly, I worry more that I’ll be dismissed because I’m a woman,” I replied softly. “That’s usually the way it goes.”

  She turned. Her expression was gentle—her eyes understanding without pitying the way only a mom’s eyes could express. “I know, honey. But you can do this. You might have to prove yourself—a fact I believe is bullshit, by the way—but you can.”

  “I shouldn’t have to prove myself. I have the experience. I have the qualifications. Why isn’t that good enoug
h just because I wear a bra and turn into a demi-demon once a month?”

  “Because.” She stopped, as if she didn’t know herself. She reached for her glass and cradled it against her chest.

  The timer on the stove went off.

  She sipped quickly and put the glass down, then grabbed the pan and drained the potatoes, somehow turning off the stove at the same time.

  “Because what?” I asked, spinning the stem of my glass between my finger and thumb.

  Mom sighed as she turned off the veggies and pulled the boiling pan from the heat. “Because, Jamie,” she said softly, “You will always be second best in your industry. You will always be chasing the lights as long as you stick with it.”

  Her words rang true, but… “You want me to work with you.”

  She turned. “I want you to do what makes you happy, Jamie. I would love for you to work with me, but I know cars are your passion. I’m terrified that these constant rejections will hurt you.”

  “I’m good enough, damn it!” I slammed my fist against the table and instantly regretted it. Wasn’t that what she was talking about?

  “I know that.” Mom’s voice was still soft, even as she began the process of mashing the potatoes. “But others don’t, and I don’t want anyone to dim your passion, baby girl.”

  “My passion doesn’t depend upon the acceptance of other people. It never has, and it never will. I won’t stop wanting to be the best I can be just because someone else decides I’m not good enough.”

  “I’m so thankful you have such a positive outlook.” She pulled plates from the cupboard. “But one day, it might happen. Someone might make you believe you aren’t good enough, and I worry you aren’t prepared for that.”

  “Mom.” I met her eyes. “I’ve spent the last several months being rejected for jobs in a field I’m more than qualified in because I’m a woman. I’m twenty-six-years-old and can’t date because I can fit a spare tire quicker than my date. I’ve loved what I do longer than I can remember. Someone’s opinion will not change that.”

  The front door slammed before she could reply.

  “What’s for dinner?” Dad asked, strolling into the kitchen in a waft of motor oil and fresh air. The strangest mix known to man, but oddly comforting.