Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DIESEL
The whine of the diagnostic machine fills the garage as I hook it up to Sandra's Mustang. Nine twenty-eight in the morning and she's already texted twice asking if she can come early. Eager doesn't begin to cover it.
"This car is seriously fucked," Marcus whistles, peering under the chassis. "Someone did a number on the transmission. And look at these brake lines. Jesus."
"Language," I mutter, though I've been thinking the same thing since I popped the hood. This car is beyond a rush restoration job. It's a death trap with a pretty paint job.
"You're one to talk about language," Marcus snorts. "Just yesterday you called Mr. Parker's Subaru a fucking disgrace to engineering."
I glare at him until he ducks his head back under the car. The kid's not wrong, but I'm the boss. I get to swear. That's how hierarchy works.
The computer beeps, drawing my attention to a list of fault codes long enough to make my wallet hurt just looking at it. And it's not even my car. The bell over the front door jingles, and I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty on the dot.
Sandra walks in wearing tight jeans and a chunky green sweater that sets off her dark skin. Her hair's pulled back into a messy bun, exposing the elegant curve of her neck. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her.
"Morning," she calls, setting a cardboard tray with two coffee cups on the counter. "I brought caffeine as a peace offering."
"For what?" I approach, eyeing the cups suspiciously.
"For all the questions I'm about to ask." She grins, pushing one cup toward me. "Bean & Bloom's finest. Sage said you take it black with two sugars."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the fact she took the time to ask how I like my coffee. I take a sip. Perfect.
"So," she continues, leaning against the counter, "what's the verdict on my baby?"
I hesitate, unsure how to deliver the bad news. Blunt honesty is my default, but something about her hopeful expression makes me want to soften the blow.
"It's not great," I finally say, gesturing for her to follow me to the car. "The engine's running on five out of eight cylinders. Your fuel pump is shot. The transmission's grinding metal. And whoever did the wiring should be banned from touching a car ever again."
Her face falls with each item on the list. "Can it be fixed?"
"With enough time and money, anything can be fixed." I pull up the diagnostic report on my tablet. "But we're talking major work. At least three weeks, maybe a month. And the parts alone will cost north of five thousand."
She winces but doesn't look as shocked as I expected. "Labor?"
"Another three to four thousand, depending on what else we find once we start tearing things apart." I watch her carefully. "Like I said yesterday, it might be more economical to look for another one."
Sandra stares at the car, something like determination hardening her features. "No. I want to fix this one. It's important to me."
I nod, respecting her decision even if I think it's financially unsound. "Your call. But I need a deposit before we start ordering parts. Two thousand should cover the initial batch."
"Not a problem." She pulls out her phone. "I can transfer it right now if you give me your account details."
This isn't how these conversations usually go. Most people balk at the cost, try to negotiate, or storm out claiming I'm trying to rip them off. Sandra's calm acceptance throws me.
"You're not even going to try to talk me down?" I ask, suspicious.
She looks up from her phone with a raised eyebrow. "Should I? Are you inflating the costs?"
"No," I say immediately. "I don't play games like that."
"Then why would I argue?" She shrugs. "You're the expert. I'm paying for your expertise. Now, account details?"
I recite the shop's account information, still slightly bewildered by her easy acceptance. Most people don't trust mechanics, assuming we're all out to scam them. Her trust is... refreshing.
"Done," she says after tapping at her phone. "Two thousand dollars transferred. Should hit your account within the hour."
"Thanks," I say, slightly awkward. "I'll get started on ordering parts today."
"Great." She takes a sip of her coffee. "So, what happens now?"
"Now I tear down the engine to see what else we're dealing with."
"Can I watch?"
The question catches me off guard. "Watch me disassemble an engine?"
"Yes." She meets my gaze directly. "I want to learn. Grandpa Joe always said a car owner should understand the basics of how their vehicle works."
"It's going to take hours. Not exactly riveting entertainment."
"I've got time." She gestures around the empty reception area. "Not like I have anywhere to be until my car's fixed."
I consider refusing. I don't like people hovering while I work. But there's something about her eager expression that makes me nod despite myself.
"Fine. But stay out of my way. And if I tell you to step back, you step back immediately. Safety first."
"Yes, sir," she says with a mock salute that should annoy me but somehow doesn't.
"Let me finish my coffee first," I grunt, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation.
She smiles, triumphant, and hops onto one of the stools by the counter. "So, how long have you been working on cars?"
"Since I was a kid." I take a long sip of coffee. "My dad owned a garage in Vancouver. I grew up with grease under my fingernails."
"Is that where you learned to be so charming?"
I glance up to find her eyes dancing with mischief. "If by 'charming' you mean 'not putting up with bullshit,' then yes."
"You know, most businesses try to make their customers feel welcome." She tilts her head. "Did you skip that chapter in Business 101?"
"I must have." I drain my coffee. "Strange, I still have more customers than I can handle."
"Because you're good at what you do," she says simply. "Quality speaks for itself."
The straightforward compliment catches me off guard. I'm used to being respected in town, but genuine appreciation without qualifiers about my personality is rare.
"Ready?" I ask, tossing my empty cup in the trash.
She follows me to the bay where her Mustang sits with its hood up, looking like a patient prepped for surgery. I grab my tools and dive in, explaining each step as I go. To my surprise, she asks intelligent questions, actually listening to my answers instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.
"So that's the carburetor," she says, pointing. "And it does what again?"
"Mixes air and fuel in the right ratio before it goes into the combustion chamber." I unhook the air filter to expose the component. "See these jets? They control the flow. Yours are full of gunk. No wonder it's running rough."
She leans in for a closer look, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me. She smells good, like vanilla and something citrusy. Clean and feminine.
"And these wires here?" She points at the distributor cap.
"Ignition system. Each one connects to a spark plug." I remove the cap to show her. "These fire in a specific sequence to ignite the fuel mixture. Timing has to be perfect, or the engine runs like shit."
"Like mine," she says with a rueful smile.
"Like yours," I agree. "Whoever worked on this last didn't know what they were doing. Or didn't care."
"Can I touch it?"
The question is so unexpected that I just stare at her for a moment.
"The engine," she clarifies, though her cheeks darken slightly. "I want to get a feel for what we're talking about."
"Sure." I step back, giving her room. "Just be careful. Some parts might be hot."
She reaches into the engine bay with cautious fingers, tracing the path of the wiring I just explained. Her brow furrows in concentration, and I watch the expressions play across her face rather than making sure she doesn't damage anything.
"It's like a puzzle," she says finally. "Everything has to fit together just right."
"That's one way to look at it." I step closer again, pointing to the valve cover. "This engine is pretty simple compared to modern ones. No computer controlling everything. Just mechanical parts working together. It's honest."
"Is that why you like classics?"
I pause, considering her question. "Partly. Modern cars are designed to be disposable. Throw them away when they break rather than fix them. Classics were built to last. To be maintained. There's something satisfying about keeping something running decades after it was built."
She nods thoughtfully. "Grandpa Joe used to say something similar about his tools. He had this ancient hand-drill that belonged to his father. Said it would still be working long after the cheap battery-powered ones were in a landfill."
"Smart man," I mutter, turning back to the engine.
For the next hour, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of disassembly.
Sandra watches quietly, occasionally asking questions but mostly just observing.
It's strange having an audience, but not as uncomfortable as I expected.
She's genuinely interested, not just pretending to be to score points or kill time.
"Diesel, you got a minute?" Marcus calls from across the garage. "Got a question about the Harper order."
"Be right back," I tell Sandra, wiping my hands on a shop rag. "Don't mess with the car."
She gives me an innocent smile that immediately makes me suspicious. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I narrow my eyes at her but head over to where Marcus is struggling with a parts catalog. The problem is simple enough to solve—he was looking at the wrong year model—and I'm back within five minutes.
Sandra is exactly where I left her, but now she's holding a wrench, examining it like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"What happened to not touching anything?" I ask, plucking the wrench from her fingers.
"Technically, you only said not to touch the car." She grins unrepentantly. "The wrench was fair game."
I shake my head, fighting the urge to smile. "You're trouble, aren't you?"
"My specialty." She leans against the workbench. "So, what's next for my poor car?"
"I need to pull the cylinder head to check for damage." I grab a socket wrench. "Then the oil pan to see what's going on with the bottom end."
"Can I help?"
I pause mid-reach. "Help? As in, actually work on the car?"
"Why not? I'm a quick learner." She rolls up her sleeves. "Put me to work, boss."
I should say no. Having an amateur mess with a classic engine is asking for trouble. But the determined set of her jaw tells me she won't take no for an answer easily.
"Fine," I relent. "You can help with the easy stuff. Hand me tools when I ask. Hold things while I loosen bolts. Basic assistant duties."
"I can handle that." She rubs her hands together eagerly. "Where do we start?"
For the next two hours, we work together in a rhythm that develops surprisingly quickly.
She's attentive and follows directions well, anticipating what tool I'll need next after just a few repetitions.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I explain more than I usually would, walking her through each step of the process.
"Holy shit," she breathes when we finally get the cylinder head off. "That does not look good."
She's right. The inside of the engine is a mess. Carbon deposits cake the cylinders, and one of the valves is clearly bent.
"No, it doesn't." I probe at the damage with a screwdriver. "This is going to need a complete rebuild."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we tear it all the way down, clean everything, replace what's damaged, and put it back together." I glance at her. "It's the most labor-intensive job in automotive repair."
Instead of looking discouraged, her eyes light up. "So I'll really get to see how it all works! Silver lining."
I can't help the chuckle that escapes me. "You're something else, Sandra Hemmings."
"Is that a compliment or an observation?" She wipes a smudge of grease from her cheek, succeeding only in spreading it further.
"Both," I admit, reaching out before I can stop myself to wipe away the grease with my thumb. Her skin is soft beneath my calloused finger, and she goes very still at my touch.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the garage fades away. There's just Sandra, with her warm brown eyes and full lips that part slightly in surprise. My thumb lingers on her cheek longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheekbone.
"You had grease," I explain, voice rougher than I intended.
"Thanks," she whispers, not breaking eye contact.
The moment stretches, tension crackling between us like a live wire. I should step back. I should focus on the car. I should remember that she's a customer, temporary in town, and definitely not someone I should be thinking about the way I currently am.
Instead, I lean slightly closer, drawn by something I can't explain.
The sharp ring of the phone shatters the moment. I jerk back, clearing my throat and turning away to answer it.
"Grizzle & Grind," I bark into the receiver, annoyed at the interruption and simultaneously grateful for it.
It's a parts supplier confirming an order for another customer. The conversation is brief, but by the time I hang up, the moment has passed. Sandra is examining the cylinder head, seemingly absorbed in the mechanics.
"Hungry?" I ask, checking my watch. It's past one, and we've been working straight through the morning.
She looks up, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Starving, actually. Is there somewhere nearby we could grab lunch?"
"The diner's across the street," I suggest. "Food's decent. Nothing fancy."
"Sounds perfect." She glances down at her clothes, now spotted with grease and grime. "Though I'm not exactly dressed for public."
"It's a mechanic's diner. No one will notice." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. "Besides, a little dirt just shows you've been working."
Her smile is bright enough to light up the whole garage. "In that case, lead the way. I've earned my lunch today."
As we head across the street, I’m hyperaware of her presence beside me. This woman is getting under my skin faster than anyone has in years. She's smart, determined, not afraid to get her hands dirty, and she looks at engines with genuine curiosity instead of blank incomprehension.
And the way she stood her ground when I tried to intimidate her? I can count on one hand the people in town who've done that.
Dangerous territory, Torres. She's a customer. Temporary. Passing through.
But as she laughs at something I say, her whole face lighting up with genuine amusement, I can't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, temporary doesn't have to mean forgettable.
I hold the diner door open for her, and she brushes past close enough that I catch that vanilla scent again. My body responds instantly, a surge of want that I ruthlessly suppress.
Control. I've built my life on it. My business. My reputation. I don't lose it over a pretty face and a quick mind.
No matter how tempting that combination might be.