Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
It’s done. I’ve cut the cord. I’m officially unemployed, stranded, and out of options, and I feel lighter than I have in months.
The little voice in my mind tells me to stay. Just for a little while. To see what happens.
I don’t know what I’ll do next. For now, I listen to the hum of the AC, the clank of pipes in the wall, the faint traffic sounds from the street below.
I let the not-knowing settle, for the first time, like it’s something I could learn to live with.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what the hell comes next.
CHAPTER 3
SETH
I watch through the glass as Tyler hovers over Frankie's Fiat. The Fiat’s hood is propped open, and he’s elbow-deep in coolant sludge, face puckered with suffering. He keeps looking up like he expects divine intervention or maybe a hidden camera crew to tell him the entire thing is a sick prank. I let him sweat for a minute, then head down from the office to set the record straight.
“Status update,” I call, and his spine snaps straight.
“Sir, I pulled the head cover and—” He hesitates, glancing at the car like it’s a ticking time bomb. “I’ve never seen so much scale in a coolant jacket. I don’t even know how she made it here. It’s really fucked, boss. You want me to get started on it?”
“Let me talk to the owner first,” I tell him as I turn to head up to my office. Behind me, I hear the soft click of him snapping on new gloves. Kid might be a disaster magnet, but he’s loyal. That’s rare.
I sit behind my desk and pull up Frankie’s info. I dial her number and hold my breath as I wait for her to answer. “Hello?” Her sweet voice cuts through my soul, sending hunger zipping through my blood.
“Frankie, it’s Seth.” I keep my tone neutral, all business.
There’s a tiny, theatrical sigh. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.”
There’s a pause, and I hear a faint sigh. “Darn it. So, what’s the estimate?”
I lean back, watching the shop floor churn. “I can give you a ballpark, but it’s gonna depend on parts availability. Honestly, it’d be easier to talk it through in person. Are you free tonight?”
She goes silent for a second. I count the beats. One, two, three.
“Tonight?” Her voice is steady, but she’s not as good at hiding nerves as she thinks.
"We can have dinner," I suggest, my voice carrying a reassuring tone. "I'll walk you through the itemized costs, lay out some options for you. After that, you can decide if it’s worth reviving Sparkie or if we’re drafting her eulogy."
Another pause stretches between us, the silence almost tangible. "Ouch," she replies at last, her voice tinged with humor, though I can sense the tension beneath. "I'm sweating already."
"Don't worry. I promise to make it painless," I assure her, attempting a casual air. I’ve never flirted in my goddamn life. Hopefully, I'm hitting the right notes here.
She breaks into laughter, a genuine sound that rings bright and quick. "All right, Seth. Dinner it is. Where do you want to meet?"
“I’ll pick you up at the Silver Spoon Inn at six-thirty if that works.”
“That works for me.”
“See you then,” I say, then hang up before I can say anything dumber.
For a minute, I just stare at the phone, heart hammering like I’m the one with a blown gasket. It’s not like me to get bent out of shape over a woman. Not since… well, fucking forever.
But Frankie is different. Everything about her is goddamn perfect.
I drum my fingers on the glass desk, then get up and walk the perimeter of my office. Everything’s under control, except for the one thing that matters.
I’ve got six hours to figure out what the fuck I’m going to say to Frankie Foxworth. And why I care this much about saying it right.
I give up and decide to head home early for the first time in years.
I pull into the driveway, the garage door gliding up with the precision I demand from everything in my life. The shop truck slides in next to the classic Mustang I keep for weekends. For a minute, I just sit in the cab and let the AC blast the sweat off my back. My mind’s on every moment with Frankie, looping over every word, every little hesitation. I want to hear it again. That’s not normal. Not for me.
Inside, I dump my keys on the kitchen island and kick off my shoes. The entire lower floor boasts an open-plan design, featuring sleek polished concrete and expansive glass walls.
I walk through the space, shedding the rest of my clothes as I go. The place is cold, but I like it that way. I head straight for the shower.
The water is scalding, exactly how I need it. For a long time, I just let it beat the day off me—grime, sweat, and the traces of stress that cling to my skin after hours in the office.