Two Margo
Two
Margo
“What can I help you with?” I ask, wiping my hands on a rag as I emerge from the garage. I blow at a wisp of my hair that has fallen into my face from my high ponytail. Maybe it’s time to go back to a pixie cut.
I quickly sweep the waiting area, expecting Joy and her son since I told her it would just be a couple hours on her Civic.
Instead, I’m greeted by a humongous minotaur. His fur is a pretty blonde, his nose–erm… snout, a wet black, his wide, dangerous-looking horns tipped in gold. As my eyes land on him, he blinks his big cow eyes with their huge lashes.
Refusing to get sucked into his gaze, I focus on his obviously custom button-down shirt and tight blue jeans. His chest is huge—I’m not even sure how he got in the door—and his horns near the ceiling.
He clears his throat. “Is your father around?”
I am immediately less impressed.
I cock a hip, hand going to it as I frown.
“153 Maple Grove, plot 27, buried for a decade.”
Immediately, chagrin crosses the huge minotaur’s face. “Sorry… uh, for your loss. I mean, I guess… is your boss around?”
My eyes narrow. “I own the place. Who’s asking?”
He looks even guiltier. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I’m making a mess of this.” He blows a huge breath out of his snout and steps forward, hand extended.
“My name is Jonas, and I’m with the Emerald Moths.”
I stare at his hand, unmoving. He lost his cute guy credit.
“Is that some church or something?” I ask.
His hand drops as he snuffles a laugh, but as he studies me, he quickly sobers. “You really don’t know who the Emerald Moths are?”
“Nope.” I hit the ‘p’ hard, still annoyed with bull-bro here. I know I should be used to it, it happens sometimes, but I’ve been here long enough that most people know me. Sexist bullshit.
When I realize I just made an internal joke, I must crack a smile, for the big blonde bull grins down at me, a soft look on his face.
Damn, he’s cute. Sexist, apparently, but cute.
“Um…” He shakes his head as he speaks. “We’re one of the…” He pauses, eyes sliding up and down me in a way that makes my neck heat. “Compulsory merchant guilds.”
I blink, trying to work my way through that word salad answer.
He continues, still looking repentant, “I apologize for not assuming you were the owner here. I didn’t get your name…”
He looks torn between confidence and awkwardness. Like he’s not normally thrown off guard.
“Margo Blume,” I offer, a hint of empathy running through me at his sincere manner.
“Margo,” he repeats, voice low.
It sends shivers through me, and I turn away, stepping behind my desk and flipping open my schedule.
“I can get you in next week if it’s minor. What’s your make and model?” I ask flatly.
“My… oh, oh. No, I don’t need my car repaired.”
Annoyance flutters through me. “Then why are you here?”