Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STELLA
“Doc’s Auto Restoration, Stella speaking.”
I immediately pull up the file on my computer. David Williams. Classic muscle car restoration. Due to be completed next Friday. Everything should be on track.
“Of course, Mrs Williams. How can I help you?”
“Well, David just called me from your workshop, and apparently there’s been some sort of accident. Something about paint and the wrong colour?”
My stomach drops, anger simmering in my veins. “I’m sorry—what exactly happened?”
“The paint job is completely wrong. David specifically wanted Rallye Green, and your painter used some other green that looks nothing like what we discussed.”
I close my eyes and count to three. “Mrs Williams, let me look into this immediately and call you back within the hour with a complete explanation and solution.”
“This better not delay the delivery. We have the car entered in a show next weekend.”
“I understand completely. I’ll handle this personally.”
After hanging up, I march out of my office and straight to the paint booth where Asher is supposed to be working on the Williams car.
What I find turns that anger into a furious, raging boil.
The car is indeed painted—in a colour that is decidedly not Rallye Green. It’s more of a forest green, completely wrong for a ‘69 Camaro SS. Not to mention, the shades are far enough apart on the colour spectrum that you’d know straight away if you’d made a mistake.
“ASHER!” I call out, and my voice echoes through the workshop.
Everyone stops what they’re doing. Jake looks up from the engine he’s working on, Parker pauses mid-wrench turn, and even Robert stops his welding to see what’s happening.
Asher emerges from the back room, looking sheepish. “Yeah?”
“What is this?” I gesture toward the Camaro.
“The Williams car. Finished the base coat this morning.”
“In what colour?”
“Green. Like you said.”
“What green, specifically?”
His face starts to go red. “Uh… green, green?”
“Asher, did you check the paint code against the specification sheet?”
“Well, I mean, green is green, right?”
I see red. “Green is green? Are you kidding me right now? Asher, there are approximately fifty different shades of green that General Motors used in 1969 alone. This car was supposed to be Rallye Green, code WA3832, and this looks like British Racing Green!”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Oh shit is right. Mrs Williams just called, and her husband is furious. This car must be perfect for a show next weekend.”
The entire workshop goes silent. Even the radio seems quieter.
“Can we… fix it?” Asher asks hopefully.
“Can we fix it? We have to strip this entire paint job and start over. Do you have any idea how much time and money that’s going to cost?”
“I’m sorry, I thought?—”
“You thought? You THOUGHT?” I yell. “Asher, thinking isn’t good enough when we’re dealing with a thirty-thousand-dollar paint job! You have to be sure. No ands, ifs or buts about it.”
I’m pacing now, my heels clicking sharply on the concrete as my mind races through solutions.
“Right. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m implementing new procedures that will prevent this from ever happening again.”
“Stella, maybe we should—” Chase starts.
I cut him off with a hand. “No. No maybes, Chase. I want everyone here. NOW.”
I point to the floor in front of me, and within thirty seconds all six guys are standing around me like school children called to the principal’s office.
“From this moment forward, every single material, part or component that goes on any car gets double-checked. I don’t care if you’ve been doing this for twenty years—you check the specifications, then you get someone else to verify. ”
I pull out my tablet and start typing furiously.
“I’m creating a digital sign-off system. Before any paint goes on any car, before any part gets installed, before any work begins, two people need to verify it’s correct and sign off digitally.”
“That seems a bit excessive—” José starts.
“Excessive? Do you know what’s excessive? Having to call a client and tell them their car-show entry is going to be delayed because we can’t tell the difference between paint colours!”
He shuts up quickly.
“Furthermore, I want photos documented at every stage of every job—before, during and after each process. If something goes wrong, I want to be able to trace exactly where and when it happened.”
“Stella,” Parker says carefully, “that’s going to slow down production quite a bit.”
“You know what slows down production even more? REDOING ENTIRE JOBS BECAUSE OF PREVENTABLE MISTAKES!”
They all flinch at my raised voice.
“I want detailed time logs, material tracking and quality checkpoints. If you don’t like the new procedures, you’re welcome to find employment elsewhere. But if you want to work here, you’re going to work to the highest standards.”
I look around at each of them, making sure my message is crystal clear.
“Asher, you’re going to strip that paint job personally and redo it correctly. I don’t care if you have to work until midnight every day this week. Robert, I want you to supervise and sign off on every step. Parker, you’re taking over Asher’s other projects until this is resolved.”
“What about the cost?” Chase asks.
“I’ll figure that out. I have some buffers that should cover it, but I won’t be able to do this every time someone stuffs up.”
Asher looks like he wants to argue, but one look at my face and he thinks better of it.
“And just so we’re all clear,” I continue, “I don’t care how long you’ve been doing this job or how many cars you’ve worked on. In this workshop, quality comes first. Always. If you can’t meet that standard, you don’t belong here.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Any questions?”
No one speaks.
“Good. Get back to work. And Asher? Start stripping that paint right this instant.”
As everyone disperses, I can feel the energy in the workshop shift. There’s a new level of seriousness—a recognition that I’m not just the friendly office manager anymore. I’m their boss, and I have standards.
I head back to my office to call Mrs Williams with an explanation and solution, but as I pass Jake’s workstation, I catch sight of him bent over an engine, his coveralls unzipped to the waist and tied around his hips, leaving him in just a tight black T-shirt that shows off every muscle in his arms and back.
God, he looks good when he’s working. The way his muscles flex as he manipulates tools, the concentration on his face, the competent way he handles complex machinery—it’s incredibly sexy.
I force myself to keep walking, but I can feel his eyes on me as I pass.
The rest of the afternoon is spent implementing new digital systems, creating workflow protocols, and having difficult conversations with clients and suppliers.
By six p.m. , most of the guys have gone home, but I can still hear the sanders and see the bright lights of the paint booth where Asher is working to fix his mistake.
Robert and Parker opted to stay back to help him. I admire their dedication to the team.
Jake’s still here too, working late on the engine rebuild that needs to be completed tomorrow. I can see him through my office window, and every time I look up from my computer, I find myself distracted by the sight of him.
There’s something about watching him work that gets to me—the confident way he handles tools, the problem-solving expression when he encounters a challenge, the satisfied look when he gets something working exactly right. It’s competence porn at its finest, and it’s making me incredibly turned on.
I try to focus on the budget spreadsheets I’m updating, but my mind keeps wandering to how those skilled hands felt on my body; how that focused intensity would feel directed at making me come apart.
By eight p.m., Asher and the others have finally called it a night, and it’s just Jake and me left in the workshop. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting long shadows across the concrete floor, and the only sounds are the occasional clank of tools and the soft hum of the coffee machine.
I finish the last of my paperwork and decide to check on Jake’s progress before heading home. I find him leaning over the engine bay of the classic Mustang, his concentration absolute as he fine-tunes something deep in the motor.
“How’s it going?” I ask, approaching his workstation.
“Almost finished. Just need to adjust the timing and she’ll purr like a kitten.”
“Good. Sorry about the drama this afternoon.”
He straightens and looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken. “Don’t apologise. Watching you put everyone in their place was the hottest thing I’ve seen in months.”
“Jake—”
“I’m serious. The way you took control, laid down the law, demanded excellence—fuck, Stella, it was incredibly sexy.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I was just doing my job.”
“You were being a boss,” Jake says, stepping closer. His eyes are heavy with want, his mouth curved in that cocky, sinful grin that makes my thighs clench. “A real boss. All confident and commanding.”
I open my mouth, but he keeps going, voice dropping to a growl that hits me straight between the legs.
“And seeing you like that… it made me want to bend you over this workbench and show you exactly how fucking turned on you make me.”
My breath catches like he’s yanked the air right out of my lungs. “We’re at work.”
“Everyone’s gone home.” He tosses the rag aside and stalks toward me now slow and deliberate. “It’s just us.”
He’s close enough I can smell him—earthy, that faint citrusy soap he uses—and it’s intoxicating. The kind of scent that clings to your clothes, your skin, your sheets.
“Jake, we agreed to be professional.”
“And we were. All day. You were professional.” His thumb brushes along my cheek, fingers cupping my jaw with a gentleness that contradicts the storm in his eyes. “But right now, I don’t want to be your employee.”