Christmas With the Bossy Mountain Man (Spice & Seduction #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DIESEL

The squeal of metal against metal splits through the shop as I torque down the last bolt on Caleb Ridge's rusted-out Jeep.

Another day, another vehicle barely held together with duct tape and prayer.

My hands are black with grease. Satisfaction runs through me as the bolt gives one final protest before yielding to my strength.

"I'm telling you man, she's smoking hot. Total knockout." My apprentice Marcus leans against the workbench, blabbing about some woman he met at The Velvet Antler last night instead of finishing the oil change on the Chevy in bay three.

I grunt in response, sliding out from under the Jeep and fixing him with my patented glare. The one that makes even the Kane brothers think twice about testing me. "You know what else is hot? That transmission if you don't get the fuck back to work and finish the oil change before lunch."

Marcus rolls his eyes but pushes off the bench. "Yes, boss." He drags the word out like he's twelve instead of twenty-two, but he moves back to the Chevy, which is all I care about.

The garage is my domain. In here, I'm king.

I built Grizzle & Grind from nothing after leaving the street racing scene in Vancouver with a pocket full of cash and a reputation I was trying to outrun.

Five years of busting my ass seven days a week turned this abandoned building into the best garage in three provinces.

I don't tolerate laziness, excuses, or shoddy work.

"Diesel!" Ricky calls from the front office. "Got a call from Roman. His Ducati's making that clicking sound again."

I wipe my hands on a shop rag, leaving dark smears across the already filthy cloth. "Tell him to bring it in tomorrow morning. I'll look at it myself."

The Kane brothers are good customers. Rich as sin from their daddy's enterprises and they don't blink at my prices. Plus, Roman knows his way around an engine. Unlike his brother Noah, who wouldn't know a carburetor from a catalytic converter.

The December air blasts through the bay door as it rattles up, carrying the scent of snow and pine.

Winter in Crimson Hollow means business picks up.

Tourists getting stuck in snowdrifts. Locals sliding into ditches.

City folks with their fancy all-wheel drives discovering that technology can't outsmart black ice.

A sleek black pickup pulls up, and I recognize Jabari Cole climbing out. Quiet guy, makes furniture up on the mountain. He's been coming down more often since he started dating Sage from Bean & Bloom.

"Torres." He nods as he approaches, hands shoved in the pockets of his heavy canvas jacket.

"Cole." I match his brevity. "What can I do for you?"

"Need new snow tires before the big storm hits this weekend. The ones I've got are too worn for another season."

I nod. "Got a set that'll fit your truck. Can have them mounted by tomorrow afternoon."

"Works for me." He doesn't waste words, which I appreciate. Man after my own heart.

We're discussing the merits of studded versus non-studded when the sound of a struggling engine draws our attention to the road.

The painful whine of a motor being pushed beyond its limits makes me wince.

The source comes into view: a classic 1967 Mustang in cherry red, limping along like a wounded animal.

Beautiful car. Terrible condition.

The Mustang sputters to a stop at the entrance to my lot, coughing out a cloud of smoke before dying completely. The driver cranks the engine several times, each attempt weaker than the last.

"That doesn't sound good," Jabari observes.

"No shit." I'm already moving toward the car, my mechanic's brain cataloging the symptoms. Fuel pump, maybe. Or something worse.

The driver's door swings open, and a woman steps out. My step falters.

Fuck me.

She's gorgeous. Tall and curvy with deep brown skin and a mass of natural curls pulled back in a puff at the crown of her head.

She's wearing a bright yellow peacoat that should look ridiculous in the dead of winter but somehow makes her glow like a fucking sunbeam against the gray December sky.

Big round glasses frame eyes that flash with frustration as she kicks one of the Mustang's tires.

"Stupid piece of junk!" Her voice carries across the parking lot. "I told him you weren't worth the money."

I approach slowly, taking in the car's condition. Despite the glossy paint job, I can see the telltale signs of a rush restoration job. Pretty on the outside, disaster underneath.

"Problem with your car?" I ask, voice gruffer than I intended.

She whirls around, startled by my approach.

Those eyes widen, taking me in from head to toe in one sweeping glance.

I'm used to the reaction. The tattoos that cover both arms and peek out from my collar tend to make an impression.

So does the blue streak in my black hair and the perpetual scowl I wear like armor.

"No, I just stopped by because I heard you give great customer service," she snaps, gesturing wildly at the smoking engine. "Of course there's a problem with my car!"

My eyebrows shoot up. Most people in town know better than to take that tone with me. I'm about to tell her to take her attitude and her broken-down car elsewhere when she sighs, shoulders slumping.

"I'm sorry. That was rude." She pushes her glasses up her nose. "It's been a long day, and this car has been nothing but trouble since I bought it."

Something about the genuine frustration in her voice softens my irritation. "Pop the hood."

She complies, and I move to inspect the engine. The moment the hood rises, I want to groan. It's even worse than I expected. The engine's been rebuilt by someone who watched too many DIY YouTube videos and not enough actual training.

"When did you buy this?" I ask, poking at a hose that's secured with what looks like electrical tape and a prayer.

"Three months ago from a dealer in Seattle." She steps beside me, close enough that I catch the scent of vanilla and something floral. "It was supposed to be fully restored. I paid a premium for it."

I snort. "You got scammed. This isn't a restoration. It's a paint job slapped over a disaster."

Her face falls, genuine disappointment flooding her features. Something twists in my chest.

"Can you fix it?"

There's a hopeful note in her voice that makes me want to say yes, even though the rational part of my brain is screaming that this car needs weeks of work. "Depends. What's your name?" I wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving dark smudges.

"Sandra. Sandra Hemmings." She offers her hand like we're at a business meeting instead of standing in my dirty garage parking lot.

I stare at her outstretched hand for a moment before taking it in mine. Her skin is soft against my callused palm. "Diesel Torres. I own the place."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Torres." There's a hint of sass in her tone that makes my lips twitch.

"Diesel." I release her hand. "Mr. Torres was my father."

"Diesel, then." The way she says my name sends an unexpected jolt through me. "So, about my car? Can you fix it?"

I look back at the engine, mentally calculating the work involved. "I can fix anything. Question is whether it's worth fixing."

Her spine straightens. "What does that mean?"

"It means this is going to be expensive. Might be cheaper to cut your losses and buy something else."

"No." The firmness in her voice surprises me. "This car is important. I need it fixed."

I study her face, trying to figure out why anyone would be so attached to this rolling disaster. "Important how?"

She hesitates, and I can see the internal debate play out across her expressive face. Finally, she sighs.

"It was my grandfather's. Or at least, the same model and year.

He used to have one just like it when I was a kid.

He'd take me for ice cream every Sunday.

" Her voice softens with the memory. "He died last year, and I thought.

.. well, I thought having this car would be like keeping a piece of him with me. "

Fuck. Now I can't tell her to junk it.

"I'll need to do a full diagnostic," I say, closing the hood. "It'll take time. And parts for these classics aren't cheap."

"Money isn't an issue." She straightens her shoulders. "Just tell me what needs to be done."

I narrow my eyes. "You're not from around here."

It's not a question, but she answers anyway. "No. I'm from Chicago originally. I'm in town for..." She pauses. "For personal reasons."

My bullshit detector pings. There's more to that story, but it's not my business. As long as her credit card clears, I don't care why she's in Crimson Hollow.

"I can start tomorrow," I tell her. "But I need you to understand something.

" I step closer, using my height to emphasize my point.

Most people back up when I do this. She doesn't budge.

"In my garage, I make the decisions. If I say something needs replacing, it gets replaced.

I don't cut corners, I don't use aftermarket parts on classics, and I don't take suggestions from customers who don't know a timing belt from a fan belt. Got it?"

Her chin tilts up defiantly. "I'm the customer, and I'm paying you for a service. That means I get to ask questions and understand what's happening with my car."

I clench my jaw. No one talks to me like this in my own garage. "Lady, there are three other mechanics in a fifty-mile radius, and none of them know how to handle a classic Mustang like this. You want it fixed right, you play by my rules."

"Or what?" Those full lips curve into a challenging smile that does things to my insides I don't want to acknowledge. "You'll send me away? Then you don't get paid. Seems like a lose-lose to me."

I glare at her, but she meets my gaze without flinching. Most people in town are intimidated by me. They see the tattoos, the scowl, the reputation I've built as the grumpy mechanic who doesn't take shit from anyone, and they fall in line.

Not Sandra Hemmings. She stares back at me like she's daring me to back down.

And damn it all to hell, I respect her for it.

"Fine," I growl. "You can ask your questions. But if you start telling me how to do my job, all bets are off."

She smiles, a bright, victorious grin that transforms her whole face. "Deal. Now, when can I get an estimate?"

I glance at the wall clock. "Come back tomorrow morning. I'll have a breakdown of what needs to be done and how much it's going to hurt your wallet."

"I'll be here at nine." She steps back, suddenly looking uncertain. "Um, is there somewhere I can stay in town? I wasn't planning on being stranded."

"The Mountain Lodge has rooms. It's about a half mile that way." I point down Main Street. "Or there's Harper's Inn at the edge of town."

She glances at her car, then back to me. "I don't suppose you could give me a ride? Since my car is currently unusable."

Saying ‘no’ is my first instinct. I don't do favors for strangers. I don't play taxi driver. I don't go out of my way to be helpful.

But something about those big brown eyes behind those ridiculous glasses makes me nod before I can stop myself.

"Let me grab my keys." I turn toward the office, calling over my shoulder, "And bring whatever you need from the car. It's going to be here a while."

As I retrieve my jacket and keys from the hook by my office door, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I'm scowling, as usual, but there's something else there too. A spark of interest I haven't felt in a long time.

This woman is trouble. I can feel it in my bones. The kind of trouble that disrupts the careful order I've built in my life. The kind that asks questions I don't want to answer and pushes boundaries I've established for good reasons.

Yet as I watch her gather her things from the Mustang, I can't help but feel a surge of anticipation. This is going to be interesting, at the very least.

And if there's one thing Diesel Torres has never backed down from, it's a challenge.