CHAPTER20
Saturday morning, everything is a bit damp yet from the rain. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and head straight away to Maxima’s Auto Repairs. As I walk up, I can hear arguing.
“What do you mean I didn’t get the job?” a familiar voice asks.
“I picked the other person.”
“What does he have that I don’t?”
I recognize the voice right as I enter the shop.
Tyler Tremaine is shouting and ranting and raving at Max. His curly, longish dark hair shifts a bit as he flings his arms.
Max’s gaze slides over to me. “She’s the one who has the it factor that you don’t have.”
Tyler whirls around. His dark eyes are even blacker than normal, all stormy and violent. “Her? You have to be fucking kidding me. Do you want this place to go down the toilet?”
“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
Tyler won’t even look at me. He just storms off, and I know there will be hell to pay come Monday morning.
“You could’ve waited for me to call you,” Max grumbles. “No, you had to just show up. You and Tyler both. You two know each other or something?”
“Or something,” I mumble.
“Well, Tyler knows about bikes some, but I could tell he was self-taught too. He wasn’t as knowledgeable as you are, so you get the job.”
I grin. “Amazing. Thank you. I—”
“On the weekends, you’re going to put in long hours,” he says grimly. “You ready to get started?”
“Yes, of course,” I say.
We get to work. There are a ton of cars that need to be worked over, and at least for this weekend, he's watching over everything that I do. That means I have to do everything for all of the cars, and he critiques me. It's maybe his way of trying to teach me what to do, but it's a bit overbearing. Just his way, I can tell, and he does crack some jokes. He's not an asshole. He just doesn't expect women to know much about his field.
When he ducks into the back to grab his lunch, a guy rolls up on his motorcycle. “Hey, hot stuff.”
I say nothing.
“I want my bike washed. “Can you do that?”
“This isn’t a car wash,” I inform him.
“No? You have to have soap and water, right? I’ll pay you, don’t worry.”
“I’m not about to wash your car for you.”
“I think you should reconsider,” he says.
“Why is that?”
He pulls out his wallet. “You spill a little of the water on you and put on a good show, and maybe I’ll slip you a few extra bills.”
“I’m not interested in ones,” I say dryly.
The guy makes a show of removing his money. He fans through it, revealing them all to be twenties. “Want to wash it now?” he asks.
I shake my head. I have too much self-respect for that.