Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
APRIL
“You’re a mechanic?” Prince Eric says with an emphasis on the ‘you’.
Although I’ve gotten this very reaction a million times, it’s still annoying.
“Could you step back… please?” I throw out the ‘please’ through gritted teeth.
“You?”
The flabbergasted look on his face is, frankly, off-putting.
Rather than answer, I use the rear wheel of my pickup to mount myself up. Wiggling my sneakers forward for balance, I fold back the tarp. The loud rustling sound is like a crack of thunder in the empty parking lot.
Sticking my hand in the bed, I push away the boxes of clothes I’ve been meaning to drop off at our local Goodwill and grab my toolbox. The moment I swing it over my shoulder and prepare to launch to the ground, Prince Eric appears beneath me.
“Whoa. Let me help you with that,” he says, muscular arms reaching for the kit.
“I’ve got it,” I mutter. “Just get out of the way.”
Despite my words, Prince Ursula stops right where I’m catapulting myself and my heavy toolbox from the bed of the truck.
I’m already mid-jump, so all I can do is let out a loud, goat-like blaaah! as my toolbox makes a very clear and axe-saw-murdering arc toward the side of Prince Eric’s head.
Thankfully, his athleticism kicks in before I can end up on the nightly news for bludgeoning our newest Lucky Striker outside the stadium.
He leaps back, missing my tool box by a hair.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t account for the fact that I’m attached to the toolbox.
There’s no time for a course correct. Our bodies collide in a mash of arms, legs, and more embarrassing goat noises.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his arm secure around my waist and his eyes intent on me. They’re a dark, swirling blue. Like the ocean right before nightfall.
I massage my temple, feeling a dull ache in my head. I’m pretty sure ramming headfirst into a brick wall would have had the same effect. What’s this guy made of? Steel?
“How many fingers am I holding up?” He waves a peace sign under my nose.
“I’m fine,” I say, scrambling up to prove the point.
He sits up more slowly. “Are you sure?”
“Just hand me your keys.”
He climbs to his feet and takes out the keys, but he hesitates when I move to take them.
“What?” I huff, letting my impatience seep in.
I never should have listened to Bobby when he called for another favor. ‘ Can you please help us out, April. My friend is new to the team and new to town. He doesn’t know anyone yet and now his car’s broken down. If anyone can get it running again it’s you.’
I really need to stop letting Bobby pull on my heartstrings.
“I just…” He slips a hand into his pocket, “have you worked on a car like this before?”
“Seriously?”
“I just got it a week ago and it’s really expensive…”
I’m not one to jump on soapboxes. I find people ten times more complex than cars and I’d rather stick to four wheels and an engine over having an argument about feminism any day.
However…
And that’s a big however…
He’s a real-life Prince Eric, so it’s disappointing that he had to open his mouth and ruin the kind, princely-pro-women-in-STEM fantasy I didn’t even know I had about Ariel’s human husband.
Throwing my hands up, I step back. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Why don’t you call the Kinseys? They have a mechanic shop and a twenty-four-hour tow service…”
“No, no. Wait. Here.” He hands over the keys with his eyes squeezed shut like he’s giving away the code to the family vault.
I let out a frustrated breath. Everything in me wants to storm away, but it’s not every day I get this close to the engine of a 1966 Miura. I have to take a peek. I just have to.
It’s difficult to stay professional and I’d say I’m about thirty percent fan-girl by the time I walk over and uncover the mid-engine. An absolutely glorious system unravels before me and my muscles tense in appreciation.
“What’s that?” Prince Eric walks beside me and then freezes. His eyes skitter to me and back to the car. “Is that the engine?”
I nod, too dazzled to speak.
“Then… what’s that.” He points to the front hood that he’d been leaning against when I first saw him outside.
“They call it a frunk,” I explain. “It’s the trunk, but it’s at the front.”
“That explains why I didn’t see an engine. I thought I’d been sabotaged.”
I can’t help it. I giggle. “You thought someone carried away an entire engine? ”
“Go ahead. Laugh at me. I deserve it.” His lips tremble as if he’s seeing the humor in it too. “I was stupid. And not only about the frunk.” He turns fully to me. “I’m sorry. About earlier. I’ve never met a female mechanic.”
I shrug. In the presence of a ’66 Miura, it’s hard to stay angry. “At this point, I’m used to it.”
“I feel like an idiot,” he says with a sheepish grin. There’s something much more genuine about his smile this time. The way it lights up his eyes. The way it forms laugh lines around his mouth.
This is a completely different guy than the one asking me to take him on a tour of the town. And somehow, I like this version more.
“I’ve met worse.” I shine my flashlight on the engine. “Actually, earlier, there was this guy in the parking lot whose car broke down and he rejected my help. Now that guy… that guy was a tool.”
He smothers his smile, trying to look contrite, but it only makes him look mischievous.
“Guilty.” He holds up both hands.
I return the smile—it’s really hard not to—and turn my attention back to diagnosing the problem.
A car says a lot about a man, so the fact that he owns a Lamborghini definitely hints at deep pockets. I’m talking Journey To The Center of the Earth deep. However, the fact that it’s a 1966 Miura tells me that his kind of rich is also old and cultured. He has no need for the latest, flashiest vehicle to prove his net worth.
I wonder how much a hockey player makes. Whatever it is, I bet it’s enough to cover my entire business loan and mortgage for the garage.
Thinking about my debts makes me turn off my fan-girl side completely and focus on solving the problem. Leaving the engine behind, I open the front door and check the dash.
“I know what’s going on,” I say.
“That was quick.” His voice is closer than I expect so I twist around, only to come inches away from his face.
Prince Eric stares at me with frank, expressive eyes and I back up immediately, flustered for reasons that I don’t want to interpret. Unfazed, he blinks naturally long lashes that I know for a fact Rebel pays a girl in the city $300 to install.
“There’s nothing wrong with your engine,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Don’t tell me… was I really sabotaged?” His eyes narrow slightly and I can tell he has a few suspects on his list already. I wonder what he did to gain enemies after less than twenty-four hours in town.
“No, your immobilizer key is the issue. The key is malfunctioning.” I press it a couple times to show him.
“But the car started.” His eyebrows knit in confusion. “I pressed the button and it did what it usually does, and then it died seconds later. Are you sure?”
“A bad immobilizer doesn’t mean the car won’t start. It will, but the computer shuts down because of a corrupted signal from the immobilizer.”
He tilts his head and I can imagine this is the expression my high school Calculus teacher saw on every face in class.
“See that?” I widen the door so he can peek in and view the dashboard. “That light that’s flashing? That’s telling you that your key fob has malfunctioned.”
“So what’s the solution?”
“Do you have another one?”
“It’s at the hotel.”
“You’ll need to get it.” I hand him the dud key. “Did you drop your key or have it around a very strong magnet?”
“I think I might have dropped it on the ice earlier.”
My head bobs in understanding. “Yep. That’s what got it. Come back with the other key fob, and you should be good as gold.”
“Thank you.” He pulls out his phone. “I don’t have cash on me, but if you give me your bank number I can wire it?—”
“It’s okay. I didn’t do anything.”
“Are you kidding? If it weren’t for you, I would have filed a report for a missing engine.” He points to the frunk.
I laugh again. “Officer Derek would probably ask around for eye witnesses too. There aren’t too many cars like yours around here.” As I speak, I give the Miura a loving look.
“Really? It’s all I’ve ever known. Collecting is kind of a family hobby.”
My initial assessment was right. He does come from old wealth.
“I’ve got a bunch of these in storage back home. If any of them have a problem, I promise I’ll drive them over to you.”
He’s just being nice, but the thought of working on more exotic cars fills me with a dopamine rush.
And maybe that’s why, against my better judgement, I turn to Prince Eric and say, “Get in.”
“In…?” He points to my car.
I walk around to the driver’s side. “I’ll take you to get that key fob.”