Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STELLA
Tuesday morning dawns crisp and bright, with golden sunlight that makes everything look like it’s been touched by magic.
I’m feeling particularly confident about life as I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on my makeup.
The workshop is running like a well-oiled machine these days.
Client satisfaction is at an all-time high, and last night Jake told me he loves me while making me see stars—more than once.
The memory still makes my cheeks flush, and my pulse quicken.
Life is very, very good.
I’m wearing my favourite white blouse today—the one Jake says makes my tits look incredible, though he usually uses more colourful language when he’s whispering it in my ear.
It’s crisp cotton that fits like it was tailored for me, paired with a black pencil skirt that hugs my curves in all the right places and my lucky red heels—the ones that click against concrete in a way that announces my presence before I even speak.
The outfit screams “competent businesswoman who has her shit together,” which is exactly the vibe I’m going for as I stride across the workshop floor with a stack of client files tucked under my arm.
The familiar sounds greet me like an old friend—the steady thrum of air compressors, the rhythmic tapping of hammers, the soft rock drifting from someone’s radio.
It’s the soundtrack to my new life, and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
“Morning, princess,” José calls from under the bonnet of a classic Corvette, his voice slightly muffled by the engine bay but still carrying that teasing note I’ve come to associate with brotherly affection.
I pause mid-stride, fixing him with my best stern expression even though a smile tugs at my lips. “Morning, José. And what have I told you about calling me princess ?”
“That you’ll dock my pay and make my body disappear if I do it again?” he replies, grinning even though I can’t see his face.
“Exactly. So why are you still doing it?”
His head pops up from under the bonnet, oil-stained hands braced on the guard, and his expression is pure mischief. “Because it winds you up, and watching you get all fiery and bossy is entertaining. Plus, you make this face when you’re trying not to smile—that’s absolutely adorable.”
I shake my head but can’t help the laugh that escapes.
The guys have gotten more comfortable with me since Jake, and I went public.
There’s less walking on eggshells and more of the easy banter that comes with genuine friendship.
It’s taken two months to build this rapport, but now it feels natural—like we’re a family that just happens to work together.
“Where’s Kinky Batman this morning?” Asher asks from his paint station, not looking up from the careful work he’s doing on what looks like a vintage Chev panel.
His movements are precise and practised, and I take a moment to appreciate the skill it takes to make something damaged look brand new again.
“His name is Jake,” I reply automatically, fighting another smile, “and he’s picking up parts from the supplier. Should be back by noon.”
“Kinky Batman,” Parker corrects with a grin, finally looking up from the electrical system he’s been wrestling all morning. “You can’t just call him Jake anymore. The nickname has stuck.”
“I can call my boyfriend whatever I want,” I say with mock authority, warmth creeping into my voice anyway.
“Ooh, boyfriend ,” Robert chimes in from his welding station, lifting his mask to reveal a face brightened by genuine pleasure. “First time you’ve called him that at work.”
“Shut up,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face or the happiness out of my voice. The word boyfriend still gives me a little thrill, even after weeks together. There’s something solid and real about having a label—about claiming Jake publicly as mine.
I’m heading toward my office, already mentally organising my morning, when I notice a small puddle of what looks like oil near Jake’s workstation.
It’s dark and viscous, spreading slowly across the grey concrete like a miniature slick.
Being the responsible operations manager I am—and having implemented safety protocols specifically to prevent hazards like this—I decide to clean it before someone slips.
I grab some paper towels from the supply shelf—the industrial-strength kind we buy in bulk because everything in a workshop gets messy. The oil is slipperier than I expect when I bend to wipe it up, my heels clicking as I try to get a better angle without kneeling in my good skirt.
What happens next occurs in slow motion, like one of those disaster movies where you can see the catastrophe coming but you’re powerless to stop it. Time stretches and warps as physics takes over and common sense takes a holiday.
My feet slide out from under me with the inevitability of gravity. I windmill my arms, trying to regain balance, my stack of client files scattering through the air like confetti. But gravity has other plans, and momentum is not my friend.
I go down hard, landing squarely on my arse with a wet squelch that echoes through the workshop like a gunshot. The impact reverberates through my bones, and for a moment I’m too stunned to do anything but sit there.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that I’ve landed directly in a drip tray full of used motor oil that someone—and I’m going to find out who—left sitting on the floor like a booby trap designed to ruin my day.
The black, sticky liquid splashes all over me and immediately soaks through my white blouse and pencil skirt, the fabric drinking it up like a sponge.
The oil is cold and viscous, seeping through the cotton and spreading across my skin in a way that makes me shudder.
It covers me from waist to knees in what looks like the aftermath of an environmental disaster, dripping from my hair and sliding down my face in rivulets that probably make me look like I’ve been dipped in tar.
For a moment, the entire workshop is silent except for the sound of oil dripping.
Then José starts to snicker.
“Holy shit,” he says, trying and failing to cover his mouth with an oil-stained hand. “Stella, you look like you’ve been dunked in chocolate sauce.”
That breaks the dam. Asher starts laughing so hard he has to put down his spray gun and lean against the bench for support. Parker doubles over, clutching his stomach like he’s in pain from laughing. Even Robert, usually the most professional, is chuckling behind his welding mask.
“Oh my God,” Chase says, emerging from his office with a stack of invoices. He stops dead when he sees me, mouth falling open. “What happened?”
“Boss lady decided to take a swim in the oil tray,” José manages between giggles, face red from laughter.
I sit there for a moment, feeling the oil seeping into places oil should never go, watching these grown men laugh at my misfortune like schoolboys who’ve just seen the class clown slip on a banana peel.
The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on me.
Here I am, the supposedly competent operations manager sitting in a puddle of motor oil like some sort of slapstick comedy character.
I plant my palm on the nearest bench, jaw tight, and push to stand.
“Are you quite finished?” I ask coldly, my voice cutting through their laughter like a blade.
“Not even close,” Asher wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “This is the best entertainment we’ve had all week.”
“Stella looks like she’s been tarred and feathered,” Parker adds, voice pitched high with hilarity. “Minus the feathers.”
That’s when my temper snaps.
The professional facade I’ve been maintaining—the careful balance between being one of the guys and being their boss, the patient understanding I’ve cultivated for months—evaporates in an instant, replaced by the kind of righteous fury that could power a small city.
“ENOUGH!” I roar, struggling to my feet without slipping again. The oil makes everything treacherous, and I have to grip the edge of Jake’s bench to haul myself up, leaving black handprints on the metal.
The laughter stops immediately, cut off like someone flipped a switch. The workshop goes dead silent; suddenly I have everyone’s undivided attention.
“Right, you lot think this is hilarious. Let me explain something.” I stand there dripping oil—probably looking like a swamp creature that’s crawled out of a primordial bog—and channel every ounce of authority I possess. My voice is steady, controlled, deadly.
“José, why was this drip tray sitting in the middle of the floor instead of properly positioned under a vehicle where it belongs?”
His laughter dies instantly, and he has the grace to look ashamed. “Uh... I moved it to clean under the Mustang and forgot to put it back.”
“And Parker, why wasn’t this spill cleaned up immediately, in line with the safety protocols we implemented to prevent exactly this? There’s a spill kit and floor signage within ten metres.”
“I... didn’t notice it?” he says weakly, all amusement gone.
“Asher, what does our workplace safety manual—the one we all reviewed and signed—say about leaving hazardous materials in walkways?”
“That... that it’s a safety violation?” he says weakly, suddenly very interested in the paint on his hands.
“Exactly. And Robert, as our most experienced team member, shouldn’t you have noticed and corrected this before someone got hurt? You know the SDS and incident-reporting process as well as I do.”
Robert has the grace to look genuinely ashamed. He pulls off his welding mask and meets my eyes. “You’re absolutely right, Stella. I’m sorry. I should have been paying better attention.”