Chapter Ten
Carter
I look up from the computer when Lincoln comes in from the back, quickly click off the window I was focused on, and pull up the invoice screen.
“Nice to have all the bays full today,” he says.
I glance outside. “It’s the weather. It’s a lot warmer today. No snow.”
“I suppose. I’m not too much of a pussy to admit I was a little freaked out yesterday with the opening of… that place.”
It’s not lost on me how none of us say the actual name of our new arch nemesis competitor.
“It’s only been one day,” I warn. “We’re going to see ramifications, Linc.”
“Yeah, I know.” He stares at the large sign hanging behind the counter listing the rates of some of our services. “Maybe we should lower our prices.”
I shake my head. “After paying ourselves, we’re barely breaking even. It’s not an option.”
“What’ll we do if—”
Mia bursts through the back door with a huge smile. I shoot Lincoln a look that tells him this conversation is over. Of all of us, Mia is the most optimistic about our situation. So I refuse to wallow in it or say anything to bring her down.
“It’s far too early for anyone to be this happy,” I say, sipping my second coffee of the morning.
“Wait until you see what’s out back. I’m definitely winning this month’s pool.”
Lincoln and I both race to the door facing the rear warehouse where we do most of the body work.
Beginning last year, the four of us put fifty bucks a month into a pool to see who can tow in the best car.
Not necessarily the most expensive car, more like the most unique one.
Two months ago, I won the pool with a Bently.
I’ve also won in the past with a Corvette Stingray, a 1969 Chevy Camaro, and, if you can believe it, a Gremlin.
I plow through the door, not even bothering with a coat. I whistle as I approach the shiny silver Aston Martin, then I cringe when I see the dents and scratches along the driver’s side.
“We’re not certified to fix this,” Lincoln says, turning to Mia. “Doesn’t count.”
“We’re not certified to fix structural damage,” she says with a smirk. “Scratches and dents we can do.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why is this vehicle not drivable?”
She shrugs. “It is. The engine is perfectly fine. After it was sideswiped, the owner didn’t want to be seen driving it in this condition. He dove into the back of a limousine before I even had this thing hooked up.
Lincoln shakes his head. “Entitled fucking millionaires.”
“Not all millionaires are entitled,” I remind him. “I do live next to one, you know.”
“This again? You defending the Montanas? What’s wrong with you, brother?” He crouches down and runs a hand over the hood. “We can probably collect a blank check for this one.”
Mia scoffs. “We are not going to price gouge based on the model of a car. What the hell are you thinking?”
“Kidding,” he says. “Sort of.” He rubs his jaw. “Fuck. Being ‘fair’ mechanics might be the death of us.”
I pat his shoulder. “On the contrary. I believe it’s what will be our saving grace.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, brother.”
“Someone want to actually work today?” Dax calls from inside the back door. “We have a line forming.”
“Coming!” I shout, then turn to Mia. “Put that in bay five, away from the others.”
She laughs. “Is it too good to sit next to the Volkswagen?”
“I don’t want that car next to anything. Treat that baby with kid gloves.”
I’m reaching for the door handle to head back inside when I hear the large warehouse door creak open behind me. Glancing back, I catch a glimpse of Kenna’s car.
Kenna. I hadn’t thought about her for the last five minutes. But that may be the only time over the past twenty-four hours I hadn’t been thinking of the mysterious brunette beauty.
I slept like shit last night knowing how close she was.
Spent too many hours wondering if she was sleeping well, or if she was lying awake thinking about her situation—whatever that might be.
My mind went crazy pondering all the possible scenarios.
Is she running from her father even though she claims he’s a decent man? Her ex? Amelia’s dad? A scorned lover?
As I approach the counter, an entirely different scenario occurs to me. Maybe I have it all wrong. What if she’s the bad guy? Has she kidnapped Amelia? Is she even Amelia’s mother?
What the hell am I thinking? Of course she is. No four-year-old is that good an actor.
I rush through helping the two customers waiting to pick up their vehicles and the one dropping off for new snow tires, then turn my attention back to the minimized browser window on the computer. The one with all the results based on my search for Kenna Bennett New York City.
There are few LinkedIn hits, none of which are her. Some Instagram profiles which uncover nothing. And something from . All of them are dead ends. I do a deeper dive on social media but find exactly squat. Who doesn’t have a social media presence? I tilt my head and think.
She gave me the wrong name, that’s why.
I look toward the rear of the shop, mentally berating myself over how stupid I’ve been.
Why haven’t I looked through her glove box?
I meant to yesterday when I collected her things, but I got distracted by the smell of her car.
As soon as I opened the door, I was bombarded by the faint scent of flowers—her perfume?
Shampoo perhaps? Or maybe that’s just how she smells all the time.
Closing my eyes, I recall the memory of falling on her out in the snow. It’s her hair. Definitely her hair. I smelled it again for those brief seconds when our eyes and bodies connected. The memory is so strong and overpowering, I can practically smell her hair right now.
I jump when my shoulder is touched. I go to close the browser, but Mia’s laugh tells me I’m too late. She’s already seen it.
“You’ve got it bad for the hot single mom,” she says with a smirk. “She’s living under your roof, but you also have to stalk her on the internet?”
“I’m not stalking her.” I get off the stool and push around some papers like I’m trying to find something important. “There’s something not right about this whole situation. Can you man the counter for me?”
“I’m on towing duty.”
“Just for a minute. I have to take a piss.”
I turn to leave, and she calls after me, “The bathroom is that way.”
I wave her off, pull on my coat, and go out the back door.
The only other person in the warehouse is Jack Pendleton, our sole non-Cruz employee.
We’ve thought about hiring someone just to man the counter—which can get especially busy in the warmer months with people buying parts from the store—but we’ve never gotten around to it.
Doubt we will now given our new financial circumstances.
Jack acknowledges me then goes back to working on the Volkswagen.
He’s a mechanic like the rest of us, but he’s also the best collision repair technician we have.
He’ll likely be the one working on the Aston Martin.
We’re all good, but not as good as Jack.
And the last thing we need is some entitled millionaire telling everyone we did a shitty job fixing his car.
I’m kind of surprised Mr. Moneybags didn’t insist on towing it to a place that specializes in fixing luxury vehicles like his.
Then again, sometimes rich people have so many cars and so much money they don’t really give a shit.
Hell, he might even sell the damn thing now that it’s no longer in pristine condition.
But that’s not my problem. As long as he pays us for the repairs, I guess he can do whatever he wants to with it once he drives it off our lot.
Back to the task at hand, I approach the passenger side of Kenna’s car. If that’s even her name.
Guess I’m about to find out.
I open the door and slide into the seat. The flowery scent I smelled yesterday is gone and all that remains is that new car smell of a fairly recent purchase.
My hand stops short of the glove box. Why am I so damn apprehensive about looking inside? I don’t know this woman. I don’t have any obligation to her. So why am I hesitating? I mean, the registration might show some guy’s name for all I know. Hell, she might have even stolen the car.
I laugh audibly at that last thought. Kenna definitely doesn’t seem the criminal type, which is why I know, if she’s on the run, it isn’t because she kidnapped Amelia.
My heart lurches. Because, then again, maybe she did.
I believe it’s still considered kidnapping if one parent takes a child away from another.
Grow some balls and look already.
I open the glove box. Contents don’t spill out like in a lot of other cars.
Most often, glove boxes are packed full of things like napkins, tire pressure gauges, cleaning supplies, hand sanitizer, even guns.
Ironically, I’ve only come across a few that actually contain gloves.
This one looks like it hasn’t been touched since the purchase of the car.
Heck, the window sticker is folded and tucked neatly on top of the manual.
I pull it out, not surprised to see the MSRP of the car is just over a hundred grand. What does surprise me, however, is the registration paperwork that clearly shows the name Kenna Bennett. And it’s dated only last week. She just bought the car?
Along with that surprise comes a rush of relief. She is who she says she is, and she didn’t steal the car.
But then more confusion sets it. She bought a car for over a hundred thousand dollars. She bought it last week apparently. Yet her concern wasn’t even for the brand-spanking-new luxury vehicle she’d just purchased at all. She was only worried about not being able to continue on her journey.
Most everyone I know would have been bummed beyond belief after wrecking their shiny new car.
Something is not adding up. A lot of things aren’t adding up.
“Hey,” someone says behind me.
I shove everything back into the glove box and look up at Trevor Criss.
Right. He said he was coming in today to work on his Dodge Charger.