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“Thanks, man.” I kill the call and drop my phone back in my pocket.

“Rule number one,” I say, voice low. “Treat every car like it’s your firstborn. Rule number two—if you fuck up, own it and fix it.”

He nods, eyes down.

I could yell, but I only have so much anger budgeted for the day. Instead, I clap him on the shoulder hard enough to jar his teeth.

“Go clean it up and call in the body guy. Tell him I’ll buy lunch if he gets it done quickly.”

Tyler scurries away, probably to have a panic attack in the supply closet.

I sip my coffee, staring down the Ferrari’s new dimple. At least it was a fixable mistake.

Jim O’Connor sticks his head out of his bay.

“Back in my day,” he grunts, eyeing the Ferrari, “dropping a tool on a client’s car was a firing offense. You going soft, Seth?”

“I keep you around, don’t I?” I shoot back.

He barks a laugh, then takes a long look at the red Ferrari. “Goddamn, that’s a pretty one. You get to drive it yet?”

I shake my head. “Client’s paranoid. Watches the odometer like it’s his wife’s phone bill.”

Jim smirks and takes the conversation in an old, annoying direction. “It’s about time you find your own woman.”

“Not fucking happening,” I grumble and turn to head back to the pile of paperwork currently reproducing on my desk.

Jim calls behind me, “Never say never,” and I ignore the fucker.

While I work, the shop fills up with the music of compressed air, steel, and muttered profanity. By seven a.m., the rest of the crew’s in, every man and woman in their station, sleeves up, heads down.

My cellphone rings and I answer without glancing at the screen. “Rutherford.”

The voice on the other end is the sheriff’s dispatcher from Silver Spoon Falls, a wealthy town a few miles away. “Dillon found a stranded motorist with a disabled vehicle out on Route 10. He wanted to know if you have time to come check it out.” That’s a good twenty miles away. No, I don’t really have time, but I never refuse the sheriff.

“Fine,” I say. “Text me the coordinates. I’ll send someone out.”

After hanging up with her, I head out to the shop to see if anyone has time to make the run. Unfortunately, it seems I’m the only one who can fit it into their day. Fuck me.

The sun has just decided to give a shit about today by the time I’m halfway down Route 10. Silver Spoon Falls disappears in the mirror, replaced by barbed-wire fences, crumbling feed stores, and roadside billboards selling firework mortars to twelve-year-olds with more ambition than sense.

Dispatch said, “disabled vehicle,” but what they meant was “tin can on wheels died in the most dramatic possible fashion.” After cresting the last rise before the old quarry, I see a little red Fiat 500, hazards on, smoke burping from the engine compartment like a signal flare.

I park a respectful distance back and kill the ignition. Dillon Armstrong strides over to my truck with a smirk on his face. “Good luck with this one, my friend.” He tips his hat at me. “I’d love to stay and watch the fun, but I’ve got a date with a big fucking cup of coffee back at the station.”

“What fun?” I call behind the crazy bastard.

“You’ll see.” I look around for the stranded motorist, but there’s no one around. I grab my toolkit, cross the gravel shoulder, and knock on the glass, ready to get this shit done so I can get back to my ever-growing pile of paperwork.

Instead, the driver’s door opens, and my heart seizes in my chest when a stunning blonde steps out. She has large, round glasses perched delicately on her charming button nose, adding a touch of intellectual allure to her face and making her blue eyes stand out. It's the kind of face that belongs on the cover of a magazine, exuding confidence and poise. Yet, her mane of blonde curls cascades wildly around her shoulders, defying both the laws of God and gravity with a rebellious spirit.

Her shirt boldly declares “Bad Decisions Club,” while her jeans cling to her curves with a precision that seems crafted for the most tantalizing of dreams.

“Are you going to stare at me all day?”

I just fucking might. I actually want to stare at her for the rest of my life. Goddamn it. Where the fuck is all this coming from? I rub the back of my neck and hold out my hand to her. “Hi, I’m Seth Rutherford.”

“Frankie,” she huffs and reaches out to shake my hand. Fucking hell. My cock turns to stone in my pants as my breath seizes in my goddamn chest. She steps back a little and points to the elderly Fiat. “And this is Sparkie. I can’t believe she chose today to pull this stunt.”