Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“You baked cookies?” he asked, looking down at the food in question, then up at me, brow quirked up, and I wished I knew him well enough to decipher the look in his eyes.
“Yes. I thought it would be, you know, nice.”
“It’s that,” he agreed, taking a cookie. But something in his tone kind of suggested that ‘nice’ was somehow a bad thing. He took a bite, and my lips curved up at the little grunt of approval he made. “Darlin’,” he said, exhaling hard, “they’re gonna eat you alive.”
With that, and nothing else, he turned and walked out through the door into the garage, leaving me standing there, my smile falling from my face.
What the heck was that supposed to mean?
Would being nice tick off the other mechanics?
And if so, why?
Nerves jangled my bones as I pushed in through the bathroom door just to the other side of the front desk.
Flicking on the light, I ignored the fact that there was toilet paper scattered on the floor, an overflowing trash can, and old soap caked on the inside of the sink.
Those were problems for later.
I stepped in front of the mirror, looking over myself.
And, fine, yes, I didn’t look like I belonged at a mechanic shop.
I had my curvy body clad in the cutest floral dress I owned—complete with pink and red flowers, a cinched belt, and a skirt that danced when I moved around.
I could have gone out and bought something dark and boring. But, well, I didn’t want to have to change who I was to be able to work at the shop.
Run the shop.
Own it.
I really didn’t think it would actually be a problem that I decided to dress girly. I mean, if the guys had a problem with working for a woman, they would have an issue with me whether I had a dress on or not, right?
I sighed, stepping closer to the mirror to rub a bit of mascara off my top lid. I’d gone light on the makeup. A little brow gel since mine were a pale blond. Same for the mascara around my light brown eyes.
Half of my golden hair was pulled up, but my bangs were left down to curtain to the sides of my round face.
I looked nice, darn it.
But maybe that was what David meant.
I looked like someone that the other mechanics could walk all over.
Admittedly, that was maybe even a little bit true. I was often nice to a fault; I always avoided confrontation if I could; I genuinely believed that pretty much everything in life could get sorted out without having to raise your voice or be nasty.
But if this new job of mine required me to be bolder, to be stronger, to use a firmer hand, well, then, I was going to have to do that.
Even if just the idea of that made my insides feel shaky.
This was a new town.
A new life.
No one here had any idea who I was.
I could be whoever I needed to be.
Rolling the tension out of my shoulders, I made my way back out of the bathroom, spending the next hour or so straightening up the front office.
It didn’t help much. The place needed new paint, new chairs, a TV that didn’t look straight out of the ‘90s. Maybe some art on the walls. A few plants.
Cash was just a little tight at the moment, so all I could do was spruce the place up a bit.
Right on cue, the other mechanics came rolling in clad in their street clothes I guessed they would hide with coveralls once they went in the back.
It was a mix of ages. Two of the men looked my uncle Phil’s age—somewhere in their late fifties or early sixties. Two looked to be in their mid-thirties. And then there were two young guys who looked barely old enough to drink.
I knew them all by name, but not face, so I decided to let them introduce themselves to me, so I didn’t come off, I don’t know, creepy.
Their lively conversation abruptly fell silent the second they moved through the doors, all of their gazes moving over me, my tray of coffee, my cookies, then back to me.
Two of them actually burst out laughing, making a sick sensation move up my throat.
It was one thing to be warm to your new boss. It was a complete other to laugh in their face.
“Cookies and coffee ain’t gonna make us like you,” one of the younger ones who I knew to be named Ren said as he passed.
But that wasn’t bad enough.
He accidentally on purpose whacked the plastic container of cookies, sending them flying over the counter and scattering all around the messy desk.
That got another chorus of laughter from the men as they went through the doorway to the garage.