Chapter 17
The invoice spreadsheet's giving me hell but in a good way—the kind of busy that keeps my brain from spiraling into the thousand what-ifs camped out in my skull waiting for their moment.
Numbers make sense. Columns line up. No ambiguity.
A plus B equals C, and C doesn't suddenly leave because it got scared.
"Holt." I don't look up from the screen because looking at him still does this thing to my pulse. "Mrs. Patter called. Wants to know if her Civic's ready."
"Tell her Wednesday." His voice carries from the garage, that specific rough edge he gets when he's knuckles deep in a stubborn engine. That Ford's been fighting him all morning—I can hear the clank of tools, the muttered "fucking hell" when something won't cooperate.
"Got it." I type the note, add it to the callback list, resist the urge to go watch him work.
That's it. That's the whole exchange. Work talk. Normal talk. The kind of conversation that shouldn't make my throat feel less tight but absolutely does.
Finn's grinning at me from under the hood of a Toyota.
I catch him looking between Holt and me like we're performing some miracle he's been praying for, like two people having a normal work conversation is grounds for celebration.
I roll my eyes at him. He winks back, returns to his oil change still smiling like an idiot.
I go back to finish the invoice, move to the next one.
Someone's left grease fingerprints on the keyboard again.
Probably Finn. Definitely Finn. I wipe it with my shirt without thinking, keep typing, notice that I'm humming under my breath and immediately stop because what am I, a Disney princess?
Except the humming starts again two minutes later because apparently my body's decided we're happy now and won't take no for an answer.
This is good. This is really good. Working beside him without the weight of everything unsaid crushing the air between us into something toxic and unbreathable.
Talking about Mrs. Patterson's Civic like it's the most important thing in the world because right now, in this moment, it kind of is.
Small talk that means we're talking. Normal that means we survived.
My phone buzzes. Text from my mom that I can see the preview of without opening: We need to talk about your situation, Scout.
My stomach drops like I've missed a step in the dark. That formal first name she only breaks out when she's gearing up for a lecture. That "your situation" phrasing like my entire life is a problem to be managed.
Nope. Not today. Not when things are finally starting to feel stable, when Holt and I are carefully rebuilding something that might actually hold.
I silence the phone, shove it in my pocket where it can't ambush me with more maternal disappointment.
Whatever she wants can wait. Whatever guilt trip she's planning can stay in California where it belongs, preferably forever, maybe with a nice ocean view.
Holt glances over, catches my expression before I can school it. "You good?"
"Yeah." I force a smile, feel it wobble at the edges. "Just my mom being my mom. You know. The usual."
He nods, doesn't push. Goes back to the Ford.
I breathe out slow. Let my shoulders drop. Focus back on the invoices and the numbers that make sense and the fact that I'm here, in this garage, doing work I'm good at beside people who want me here.
Finn emerges from the garage, grinning. "Yo, Scout. You handle that brake pad guy?"
"Yep. Booked him for Thursday."
"Look at you. Professional and shit." He's being sarcastic but also genuinely impressed, that Finn way of showing affection through mockery. "Next you'll be doing oil changes."
"I'd rather stick needles in my eyes."
"That's the spirit." He grabs his keys, heads for the door. "I'm going on a parts run. Be back in an hour. Try not to make out on my workbench while I'm gone."
He's out the door before I can throw something at him, leaving me alone with the sound of his truck starting up, pulling out of the lot.
Leaving me alone with Holt.
The shop goes quieter without Finn's noise. Not silent—there's still the ceiling fan, still the cicadas, still the distant sound of traffic on the highway. But quieter. More intimate.
I go back to the invoices. Try not to be weird about it. We're fine. We're good. We had lunch together and it was nice and normal and—
The bell over the door chimes.
I look up expecting a customer with a normal Monday afternoon problem like a flat tire or a weird noise.
Instead I get a middle-aged white guy, face already red, clutching an invoice. The energy coming off him is aggressive and entitled and exactly the kind of shit that would've made me go find Holt when I first got here, back when I was new and scared and didn't know anything.
But I've been handling phones and customers and the chaos of this place for weeks now. I've learned the language of auto repair. I know these invoices inside and out. I'm not the same girl who showed up here in a wedding dress anymore.
So I don't flinch. Don't go looking for rescue. Just straighten in my chair and wait for it.
"This is highway robbery!" He slams the invoice on my desk hard enough that my coffee cup jumps, liquid sloshing. "You're charging me for work you didn't even do!"
I glance at the invoice without touching it, keeping my expression neutral. Mr. Henderson. The F-150 from last week. Alternator replacement.
"Sir, I can absolutely help you with this." My voice comes out calm. Professional. The customer service voice I've been perfecting that sounds pleasant but brooks exactly zero bullshit. "Let me pull up your file."
"I don't need a file!" His face is going from red to purple, impressive really, like watching a blood pressure crisis in real time. "I need my money back! This is fraud! I'm calling the Better Business Bureau! I'm calling the police! I'm—"
"Mr. Smith." I interrupt, still calm, opening the file on the computer. "I understand you're frustrated. Let's take a look at what we did."
Behind him, I hear movement. Holt's emerged from the garage, wrench still in hand, eyes on the situation. Ready to intervene if needed. But I catch his eye, shake my head slightly.
I've got this.
His eyebrows lift but he stays back. Watching. Trusting me.
"I see here we replaced your alternator, which was completely shot." I scan the notes, pull up the photos we took. "We also had to replace the serpentine belt because it was worn through and would've failed within a week."
"I didn't authorize a belt replacement!" He's leaning over my desk now, trying to intimidate with proximity and volume.
I don't lean back. Don't give him the satisfaction. Just meet his eyes with patient professionalism that says I deal with your type every day and you're not special.
"Actually, you did. Holt called you last Tuesday at two forty-seven PM." I turn the monitor so he can see. "Quote: 'Customer authorizes belt replacement after explaining safety concern. Confirmed price of eighty-five dollars for part and labor.' That's Holt's note. Timestamp. Your phone number."
His mouth opens. Closes. He's deflating in real time as reality hits that he's wrong and I've got documentation and there's no wiggle room here.
"I also have the call log if you'd like to verify—"
"No, I..." He's backpedaling now, bluster fading like air from a balloon. "I mean, he might've mentioned it. I just didn't realize it would cost—"
"The total came to four hundred and thirty-two dollars." I pull up the breakdown, keep my voice measured. "Two hundred for the alternator, eighty-five for the belt, rest is labor at our standard rate of seventy-five per hour. Industry standard."
I grab the comparison sheet we keep for exactly this reason, slide it across the desk. "Here's what other shops in the area charge. We're actually on the lower end."
He's looking at the numbers now. I can see him doing the math, realizing he's got no ground to stand on, that he came in here ready for a fight and walked into a wall of competent record-keeping instead.
"Look, I get it." I soften my voice slightly, add some empathy back in now that he's calmed down.
"Car repairs are expensive. Nobody likes paying for them.
But we don't charge for work without authorization.
We take photos. We call for approval. We document everything specifically so there's no confusion later. "
His shoulders slump. "Yeah. Okay. I guess... I guess that's fair."
"We just want to make sure you're taken care of, Mr. Smith.
That your truck's safe and running well.
" I close out his file, give him my best customer service smile.
"If you have any other questions about the work we did, Holt's right here and happy to walk you through it. Otherwise, you're all set."
He takes the invoice, folds it carefully, puts it in his wallet. Mutters something that might be an apology. Leaves without making eye contact, the bell chiming his exit.
Silence falls.
Then Holt's voice from behind me: "That was impressive."
I spin in my chair. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that almost-smile on his face that means he's genuinely pleased but won't say it directly because feelings are hard.
Pride floods through me, warm and unexpected and so fucking satisfying it makes my skin tingle. "I know."
"No, seriously." He pushes off the doorframe, walks closer. "You de-escalated that guy like a pro. I was ready to throw him out and you just... handled it."
"It's not that hard. Just know your shit and don't take the bait." But I'm smiling now too, can't help it, face hurting from how wide this grin is. "Besides, we had all the documentation. He couldn't argue with facts."