Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies (Men of Medford #2)

1. Aurora

CHAPTER ONE

Aurora

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

I had been in Medford for exactly thirteen minutes before my Jaguar F-Type sputtered, choked, and died in the middle of the one-stoplight town.

Gripping the steering wheel, I exhaled slowly. “Of course.”

It wasn’t enough that I’d been forced to take time off from my job—the job I had worked my ass off for—to deal with an inheritance I never asked for. No, the universe had to up the stakes by stranding me in the exact place I’d never thought I’d find myself.

I glanced at the dashboard, half expecting it to magically come back to life if I just stared hard enough.

No such luck.

“Great.”

A quick check of my phone confirmed what I already suspected—no service. Because, of course, this place was still stuck in the dark ages.

A tap on my window made me jump.

“Car trouble?”

I turned, and my frustration deepened at the sight of not one, but three men standing outside my car.

Brothers. I could tell instantly.

The same strong jawline, the same broad shoulders, the same air of confidence that suggested they could fix just about anything and would probably be insufferable while doing it.

Matching shirts with “Grady’s Auto Repairs” stitched over the pocket made it pretty clear where that confidence came from.

The one closest to me—tall, dark-haired, and annoyingly handsome—tilted his head and smirked. “Need a hand?”

I rolled down the window just enough to be heard but not enough to let in whatever small-town charm they were trying to sell.

“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s probably just overheated.”

The smirk deepened. “That right?”

The one to his left—slightly taller, blue-eyed, and clearly the calmest of the three—crossed his arms. “You should pop the hood. We can take a look.”

I hesitated.

I had no reason to trust them, but my choices were limited, and standing here all day waiting for a tow truck that may or may not exist in this town wasn’t exactly appealing.

With a sigh, I popped the hood and climbed out of the car.

“Thanks,” I said begrudgingly.

“Don’t sound too excited,” the third one—younger, blond, and cocky as hell—murmured, his green eyes glinting with amusement.

The first brother, Smirking Mechanic, chuckled and leaned under the hood.

“You're new in town,” the calm one observed.

I crossed my arms. “Just passing through.”

“Huh.” He exchanged a look with the others. “Most people don’t just pass through Medford.”

“I’m not most people,” I said.

You could practically hear the curiosity thickening in the air.

Smirking Mechanic, who I was starting to suspect was the ringleader, glanced up. “So, what brings you here?”

I hesitated. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but saying it out loud still felt strange.

“My uncle left me his bookstore. I’m here to sort it out.”

At that, all three men stilled.

The calm one, whose gaze had been assessing but not unkind, nodded slowly. “You're Bennett’s niece.”

I frowned. “You knew him?”

“Knew him?” The younger one let out a sharp laugh. “Everyone knew him. He was?—”

“A character,” the calm one interjected, shooting his brother a look.

I studied them. They weren’t looking at me with pity, exactly, but there was something else there. Something unspoken.

“My uncle and I weren’t close,” I admitted. “I barely knew him.”

Smirking Mechanic wiped his hands on a rag and straightened.

“That's a shame,” he said. “He was a good man.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “So I hear.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say.

My uncle had always been a mystery. Just a name attached to occasional birthday cards and once, a signed copy of some obscure novel I’d never gotten time to read. Now, he was gone, and I was standing in the town he’d called home, trying to figure out what the hell to do next.

“Well,” Smirking Mechanic said, shutting the hood with a sigh, “it’s not a quick fix. Looks like something in the electrical system shorted out. And with a car like this…”

He trailed off, exchanging a glance with the others.

I frowned. “With a car like this, what?”

“Parts might take a while,” the calm one admitted. “And the nearest shop that can handle something foreign is two towns over.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course.

“How long is ‘a while’?”

The younger one smirked. “Couple days. Maybe a week.”

I groaned. “Perfect.”

Smirking Mechanic leaned against the side of my car, looking far too amused. “Lucky for you, Medford isn’t the worst place to be stranded.”

I gave him a flat look. “I'll be the judge of that.”

He let out a low chuckle, exchanging a glance with his brothers.

“Fair enough.” He extended a grease-streaked hand. “Ethan Grady.”

I eyed his hand warily before shaking it. His smirk widened.

The calm one stepped forward next.

“Owen.”

His handshake was firmer, steadier, and came with a look that felt just a little too perceptive.

“And I’m Mason,” the younger one said, his grin downright smug. “The best-looking one, obviously.”

I snorted. “Debatable. Aurora.”

Ethan laughed while Owen shook his head in exasperation. Mason just looked pleased with himself.

“So, Aurora,” Ethan said, leaning back against my car again like he had all the time in the world, “what's the plan?”

I exhaled.

“The plan was to sort out my uncle’s affairs and get back to my life.” I gestured to my very dead car. “Clearly, that's not happening anytime soon.”

Owen nodded. “The Medford Inn’s just down the street. Nancy Hayes runs it. She'll get you sorted.”

“Great,” I muttered.

I could already picture it: doilies, floral wallpaper, and a woman who probably knew more about my uncle than I did.

“Need a ride?” Ethan offered.

I hesitated again. Accepting their help once was bad enough. Twice? That felt like some kind of slippery slope.

Before I could decide, Mason grinned. “You could always walk. It’s only, what, a mile?”

I scowled. “Fine. Ride it is.”

Ethan pushed off the car with a satisfied look. “Welcome to Medford, Aurora.”

The bookstore was worse than I had expected.

I stood on the sidewalk where the Grady brothers left me, staring up at the faded sign that read Page Turners in peeling gold letters. The whole building looked tired, like it had been waiting too long for someone to care about it.

I didn’t want to be that someone.

The key was warm in my palm, even though the February air had a sharp bite to it. I twirled it between my fingers, wondering whether I made a mistake telling them to drop me off here instead of the inn.

I should have left this mess for tomorrow but I knew myself.

If I put it off now, I’d keep putting it off. And the sooner I figured out what to do with this place, the sooner I could go back to my life.

With a sigh, I shoved the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

The scent of dust and old paper rolled over me like a wave.

The air inside was heavy, like time had been on pause, waiting for someone to press play again. Shafts of afternoon light cut through the dirty windows, casting long shadows over the cluttered space.

Bookshelves leaned at odd angles, some packed so tightly with books that the wood bowed under the weight, others nearly empty. Stacks of paperbacks sat on the floor in precarious piles, and the old cash register on the counter was covered in a fine layer of dust.

It looked exactly like the kind of place people romanticized. The kind of indie bookstore where a person could get lost for hours.

I didn’t have that luxury.

I took a slow step forward, my boots scuffing against the hardwood.

This place was going to take work. A lot of work.

And even then, I didn’t know if it would be enough to make it worth selling.

I rubbed my temples. This wasn’t supposed to be my problem.

Running my fingers along the edge of the counter, I felt the rough wood beneath my touch. A small notebook sat open beside the register, its pages filled with tight, slanted handwriting.

My uncle’s?

I hesitated before flipping through it. Inventory lists. Notes. A reminder to fix the back door.

As I turned another page, something slipped free and fluttered onto the counter. A sheet of yellowed paper, edges slightly crumpled, like it had been handled more than once.

I frowned and picked it up. The handwriting was uneven, the letters wobbly, like they had been written by a much younger hand.

A strange familiarity tugged at me, and when I saw the title scrawled across the top, my breath caught.

The Adventures of Rosie and the Bookshop Dragon.

My fingers tightened around the paper. I knew this story.

Because I had written it.

I stared at the words, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.

I must have been nine, maybe ten, the last summer I spent in Medford. I remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor of this very bookstore, a composition notebook in my lap, dreaming up a story about a brave girl named Rosie who found a dragon hidden in her uncle’s basement.

I had thought no one had noticed. No one had cared.

But somehow… my uncle had kept this.

A lump rose in my throat as my eyes scanned the familiar, messy scrawl. I remembered how proud I had been of that story, how I had let myself dream—just for a little while—of being a writer.

Before reality set in. Before I convinced myself that dreams like that were foolish.

And yet, all these years later, it was still here.

I exhaled slowly and pressed the page against my chest. Maybe my uncle and I hadn't been as distant as I had thought.

Maybe he had been paying attention, even when I hadn't realized it.

I folded the paper carefully, tucking it back into the book before I could overthink it. My head was a mess of emotions I didn’t have the energy to sort through right now.

The bookstore was still quiet around me, heavy with dust and the weight of time. A part of me wanted to stay, to keep looking, to see what else my uncle had left behind.

But exhaustion was creeping in, and after the absolute disaster of my arrival, I needed a break.

I grabbed my bag, hauled my suitcase along, and locked up before heading for my car… only to be reminded, once again, that it wasn’t there, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

I sighed. Right.

The Medford Inn was only a few blocks away, so I walked. The winter air was crisp, biting at my cheeks as I made my way down Maple Avenue.

Medford was exactly the kind of town that belonged on the front of a postcard—quaint, charming, the kind of place where people still waved at strangers. More than a few glanced my way as I passed, curiosity flickering in their expressions.

I kept my head down and walked on.

By the time I reached the inn, my fingers were numb, and my patience was thinner than I would have liked.

The Medford Inn was just as picturesque as the rest of the town, if a little worn around the edges. A historic two-story building with white siding, dark green shutters, and a wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, the words The Medford Inn – Est. 1902 carved into the wood.

I pushed through the front door and warmth wrapped around me instantly, carrying the scent of something sweet. Vanilla, maybe cinnamon.

The front desk was empty, but the lobby was inviting. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, and the furniture was antique and well loved, the kind of pieces that had stories to tell.

Before I could call out, a voice drifted in from the back.

“Well, now, you must be Aurora Bennett.”

I turned as a woman stepped out from a side room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She looked to be in her late fifties, with silver-streaked auburn hair pulled into a loose bun and kind brown eyes that studied me with quiet interest. She was dressed in a soft sweater and jeans, but there was something about the way she held herself that told me she was the kind of person who saw everything without making a fuss about it.

“How did you know that?” I said, setting my bag on the counter.

She smiled. “Small town. We don’t get many strangers.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. Of course they don’t.

“Plus, Owen Grady called ahead and said you might need a room.”

My eyes popped wide. He did?

“I’m Nancy Hayes. Welcome to Medford.” She extended a hand, and after a brief hesitation, I shook it. Her grip was warm, firm. “You must be tired after your trip. Your room’s all ready for you.”

I nodded, suddenly aware of how much I wanted a hot shower and a real bed. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Nancy studied me for a beat, like she was debating whether to say something else. Then she tilted her head toward the side room.

“You hungry?” she asked. “I just made some apple cobbler. Still warm.”

I blinked. That was… not what I had expected.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

She lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That wasn’t the question.”

A small huff of laughter escaped me. I didn’t even like sweets that much, but the idea of sitting in a quiet inn with something warm and homemade was more appealing than I wanted to admit.

I hesitated—just for a second—before shrugging. “Sure. Why not?”

Nancy’s smile deepened, like she had known I’d say yes all along.

“Good,” she said, already turning toward the kitchen. “Come on, then. You can tell me what you think of Medford so far.”

I followed her, a little wary, a little intrigued.

Because so far? Medford was nothing like I had expected.