Page 1 of Fixed (Spicy Bites #2)

SETH

At five twenty-two a.m., Silver Spoon Falls is still nursing its Monday morning hangover. The only thing stirring downtown is me.

I walk over to the side door and press my code into the alarm panel. The heavy glass door groans open before the motion lights flip on, and the day’s first and last bit of serenity goes straight to hell.

As the owner, operator, and unofficial den mother of the best goddamn luxury auto shop in East Texas, I practically built this place.

What was once a leased single-bay shithole in the strip mall is now twelve high-tech bays that keep the expensive cars in this small, wealthy town running like well-oiled machines.

The building used to be a chain tire shop before I bought it and turned it into a glass and stainless-steel fortress.

I take a lap, my boots echoing off the epoxy floor coating, making sure everything is set for another busy day. I’m the only mechanic in Silver Spoon Falls who makes his guys clock in at six sharp. Efficiency is my religion.

The first thing needing a little love and attention is a cherry red Ferrari belonging to the Country Club President.

Next to it sits an ornery Aston Martin Dbr1 needing a new radiator after its owner drove it up on a curve.

The final bay is home to the ongoing disaster that is Jim O’Connor’s ’68 Camaro restoration.

“Good morning, boss.” Tyler Jackson, my newest hire, comes strolling in with his cup of fancy ass coffee in his hand.

“Morning,” I mutter back as I head up to my office for my own cup of much-needed caffeine. I’m two sips deep into my coffee and three minutes into reviewing the day’s job list when I hear the first “oh shit” of the morning. Right on cue.

I stroll out into the shop to find Tyler standing over a shiny red Ferrari 812, hands spread, eyes wide.

“What the hell, Jackson?” I bark, moving in. The kid’s got a look on his face like he’s seen the ghost of Enzo Ferrari himself.

He points. “I was setting the torque wrench, and it slipped. Fell, like, right here.”

He’s not pointing at the engine bay. He’s pointing at the Ferrari’s hood.

There’s a golf-ball-sized dent on the passenger side, the paint spider-webbed out from the impact. That particular hood costs seven grand to replace, not counting labor. Fuck me.

I run a hand through my hair and try not to imagine what my blood pressure is doing right now. “Goddamn it, Tyler. That’s Cash Montoya’s baby.”

The CEO and President of the Silver Spoon MC is richer than God. And, he’s one of my best customers.

“Show me the wrench,” I deadpan, voice flat.

Tyler hands it over like it’s evidence in a felony. He’s sweating bullets. “I’m sorry, boss. I’ll, uh, call the body guy right away.”

“No, you’re going to call Cash Montoya and you’re going to tell him what happened.”

His Adam’s apple bobs like it’s trying to escape his throat. “Shouldn’t you?—?”

“Jackson. You break it, you call the owner. That’s house policy.”

“Sucky goddamn policy,” he mutters under his breath as I dig my cellphone out and dial Cash’s number before handing the phone over to Tyler.

“This is Cash.” I can pretty much hear the conversation perfectly.

Tyler’s voice comes out two octaves higher than normal. “Uh, hi, Mr. Montoya. This is Tyler at Prestige. There’s been a, uh, minor issue with your Ferrari.”

A pause. “How minor?”

Tyler launches into a rambling, detail-free explanation. I watch the color draining from his face, like someone slowly letting the air out of a beach ball. When he finally stops talking, the line goes dead for a full second.

Cash’s laughter comes through the line, sharp as a glass bottle shattering on tile. “Man, relax. That’s what insurance is for. Just fix it and we’ll figure out the finances when I pick it up.”

Tyler’s mouth opens and closes, no sound. He glances at me for help.

I grab the phone. “Morning, Cash. We’ll have the panel replaced by Wednesday, on us. You’ll never see the difference.”

Cash snorts. “I trust you.”

“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.”

I open the hood and barely manage to bite back my gasp at the disaster hiding beneath it. “Nice name,” I mutter, propping the hood with one hand and poking around the radiator with the other. “You run it hot for long?”

She frowns. “I was halfway to Galveston before the little dashboard light stopped looking like a suggestion and more like an omen.”

The engine bay is a disaster zone with swollen hoses and coolant everywhere, the kind of self-inflicted wound I’d expect from a college sophomore, not someone who speaks in perfectly enunciated, judgmental sentences.

“Your timing belt’s shot to hell and your radiator’s leaking like a goddamn sieve,” I announce, wiping my hands on a rag.

She sighs, and for a moment, her armor slips. “That bad?”

“Yep.” No use sugarcoating it. Plus, her car is the least of my worries right now.

At the moment, I’m fighting the urge to throw her gorgeous ass over my shoulder and head for the hills.

Fucking Jim’s earlier words flash through my mind, and I realize the universe decided to take that motherfucker’s side.

I turn back to the mess under her hood and switch back into work mode.

“I’m sure we can fix it, but I have to get it back to my shop for a more in-depth look. I’ll tow it in.”

“Will you give me a ride, too?” She bites her bottom lip and steps closer. My nose perks up as her delicate fragrance hits me. Up close, she smells like jasmine and roses, and I’m instantly addicted.

“Hop into my truck while I hook up Sparkie.”

She laughs, a quick and unexpected burst of sound that catches me off guard, then makes a show of leaning into her car to grab her bag. When she gives her ass a little shake while humming to herself, I nearly come in my pants.

I can already see this one is going to give me a run for my money. And I couldn’t be happier.

She straightens up and gives me a little wink before walking over to my rig and sliding into the seat gracefully, adjusting her snug jeans with a gentle tug to keep them from rising too high.

Her movements are casual, yet there's an effortless elegance to them, and I can't help but wonder if she's even aware of the magnetic effect she has on me.

I make my way back to connect the Fiat, feeling the gravel crunch under my boots with each step.

Once the task is complete, I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut with a satisfying thud.

The air inside is warm and carries a faint scent of old leather and pine.

She’s already busy adjusting the vent, her fingers deftly maneuvering it to redirect the cool air away from her face, which is slightly flushed from the sun.

"I'm not usually the damsel-in-distress type," she says after a pause, her voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. "Just FYI."

"Yeah, you seem more like the 'set the village on fire' type," I reply, my gaze fixed on the long, winding road ahead.

The sun beats down mercilessly, casting ripples of heat across the asphalt.

"What brings you out to this little slice of Texas hell?

" The landscape stretches endlessly, a vast expanse of dry earth and scrubby plants, with the distant horizon shimmering in the afternoon heat.

She pauses, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "I had a job lined up on a cruise ship, but I don’t think I’ll make it to Galveston before they depart," she admits, her voice tinged with disappointment.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I fucking lie.

In truth, I’m not sorry at all that she’s stuck in Silver Spoon Falls. In fact, I’m planning to do whatever it takes to make sure she never leaves.