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CHAPTER ONE

Dasha

The cute duck and bunny mug was going to be a problem.

To be fair, when I bought my mug collection—usually picked up as impulse buys on the winding line at HomeGoods—I hadn’t ever imagined piling them onto an—equally cutesy—floral plastic tray with my—blessedly basic white—carafe to serve coffee to a bunch of strange men.

Ideally, I would have gone to a coffee shop and grabbed a bunch of to-go cups for everyone. But, well, the cost of a cup of coffee was astronomical lately. And I wasn’t exactly rolling in it.

Moving across the country was expensive.

So homemade coffee, it was. With a side of homemade oatmeal cookies. Because I was really trying to make a good first impression, dammit.

Surely, there was one guy in the garage who would be comfortable enough in his masculinity to take the bunny and ducky cup.

I brought up my leg to balance the tray so I could reach for the giant old keychain full of no fewer than twenty different keys of every different shape and size—each of them sporting that awful, strong metallic scent that clung to my fingers afterward.

But just as I was about to stick the key in the lock, the door swung open, revealing a man in navy blue coveralls heavily stained with various greases and oils.

He towered over me, casting a shadow over my face, blocking that harsh yellow early morning sun, so I could actually get a good look at him.

Under his jumpsuit, he seemed long and lean. His face was angular and handsome with hazel eyes and a slightly shaggy crop of golden brown hair that was streaked lightly with some salt-and-pepper.

Totally hot. If too old for me.

“You must be Dasha,” he said, gaze moving downward over me, making me quickly grab the tray so I could lower my knee.

Being in a pirate pose while in a flowing floral sundress was probably not the best first impression. Such was my life, though. I wasn’t sure I’d ever made a good first impression. I was a fumbler and bumbler and a bit too much of a try-hard, which always made me come off a bit too peppy or fake, even if all I wanted was for people to, you know, like me.

“That’s me,” I said, smiling up at him. “I didn’t think anyone would beat me here,” I admitted.

It was half past five, for goodness’ sakes. This guy looked like he’d already been up for hours.

“I open the shop,” he explained. “David,” he said, still blocking my path.

“Right. The shop manager,” I said, nodding.

That whole ‘try-hard’ thing definitely applied to the way I sat poring over the employee files, learning everyone’s names, positions, and as much general information as I could glean from my uncle’s notes. Though he didn’t have any pictures of anyone, so I was in the dark with that until I officially introduced myself to them.

“Yep,” he agreed, finally stepping to the side to let me pass.

The front of the shop still carried with it all those greasy and metallic scents from the garage—likely thanks to the stains all over the front desk, the doors, and even the walls.

That was one of my first orders of business: give the whole place a good clean. It was kind of obvious that the place hadn’t seen a mop or cleaning rag in years. Possibly decades.

“Did anyone else beat me in?” I asked, inwardly cringing at setting my nice tray on the dirty front counter.

“Just me. Everyone else rolls in around six-thirty or seven. That’s what you wear to work at a garage?” he asked, gaze skimming down me again.

“Well, I don’t plan on rotating any tires today,” I said, smoothing my hands down my dress.

That got a little snorting laugh out of David, and I figured I maybe just made a new ally. Which I might need. I figured it wasn’t going to be easy for a group of men who were used to male leadership to suddenly be dealing with not only a female boss, but one who was a stranger, and likely younger than most of them.

I mean, it wasn’t like this was what I planned for my life either. But here we were.

“Fair enough,” David said. “That coffee or some fancy coffee-like shit?”

“It’s coffee,” I said, pulling my shoulders back a bit. “And there is creamer in the—“

“No need,” he cut me off, reaching for the white handle of the carafe with his black-stained fingers and pouring a cup… right into the duck and bunny mug. Well, that was one less thing to worry about.

“Oh, and I have cookies,” I said, setting down my bag and reaching inside for the plastic container—fine, yes, it had little pink and red ladybugs all over it—that was packed with the treats. I popped the top and held it out toward him.

“You baked cookies?” he asked, looking down at the food in question, then up at me, brow quirked up, and I wished I knew him well enough to decipher the look in his eyes.

“Yes. I thought it would be, you know, nice.”

“It’s that,” he agreed, taking a cookie. But something in his tone kind of suggested that ‘nice’ was somehow a bad thing. He took a bite, and my lips curved up at the little grunt of approval he made. “Darlin’,” he said, exhaling hard, “they’re gonna eat you alive.”

With that, and nothing else, he turned and walked out through the door into the garage, leaving me standing there, my smile falling from my face.

What the heck was that supposed to mean?

Would being nice tick off the other mechanics?

And if so, why?

Nerves jangled my bones as I pushed in through the bathroom door just to the other side of the front desk.

Flicking on the light, I ignored the fact that there was toilet paper scattered on the floor, an overflowing trash can, and old soap caked on the inside of the sink.

Those were problems for later.

I stepped in front of the mirror, looking over myself.

And, fine, yes, I didn’t look like I belonged at a mechanic shop.

I had my curvy body clad in the cutest floral dress I owned—complete with pink and red flowers, a cinched belt, and a skirt that danced when I moved around.

I could have gone out and bought something dark and boring. But, well, I didn’t want to have to change who I was to be able to work at the shop.

Run the shop.

Own it.

I really didn’t think it would actually be a problem that I decided to dress girly. I mean, if the guys had a problem with working for a woman, they would have an issue with me whether I had a dress on or not, right?

I sighed, stepping closer to the mirror to rub a bit of mascara off my top lid. I’d gone light on the makeup. A little brow gel since mine were a pale blond. Same for the mascara around my light brown eyes.

Half of my golden hair was pulled up, but my bangs were left down to curtain to the sides of my round face.

I looked nice, darn it.

But maybe that was what David meant.

I looked like someone that the other mechanics could walk all over.

Admittedly, that was maybe even a little bit true. I was often nice to a fault; I always avoided confrontation if I could; I genuinely believed that pretty much everything in life could get sorted out without having to raise your voice or be nasty.

But if this new job of mine required me to be bolder, to be stronger, to use a firmer hand, well, then, I was going to have to do that.

Even if just the idea of that made my insides feel shaky.

This was a new town.

A new life.

No one here had any idea who I was.

I could be whoever I needed to be.

Rolling the tension out of my shoulders, I made my way back out of the bathroom, spending the next hour or so straightening up the front office.

It didn’t help much. The place needed new paint, new chairs, a TV that didn’t look straight out of the ‘90s. Maybe some art on the walls. A few plants.

Cash was just a little tight at the moment, so all I could do was spruce the place up a bit.

Right on cue, the other mechanics came rolling in clad in their street clothes I guessed they would hide with coveralls once they went in the back.

It was a mix of ages. Two of the men looked my uncle Phil’s age—somewhere in their late fifties or early sixties. Two looked to be in their mid-thirties. And then there were two young guys who looked barely old enough to drink.

I knew them all by name, but not face, so I decided to let them introduce themselves to me, so I didn’t come off, I don’t know, creepy.

Their lively conversation abruptly fell silent the second they moved through the doors, all of their gazes moving over me, my tray of coffee, my cookies, then back to me.

Two of them actually burst out laughing, making a sick sensation move up my throat.

It was one thing to be warm to your new boss. It was a complete other to laugh in their face.

“Cookies and coffee ain’t gonna make us like you,” one of the younger ones who I knew to be named Ren said as he passed.

But that wasn’t bad enough.

He accidentally on purpose whacked the plastic container of cookies, sending them flying over the counter and scattering all around the messy desk.

That got another chorus of laughter from the men as they went through the doorway to the garage.

“Dunno. I’d fuck her,” one of them said, making my stomach twist.

“Nah. Too big for me,” another of them said, getting more laughs as the door closed, silencing anything else they may have had to say about me.

There was a window between the garage and the waiting room, allowing customers to check the progress going on in the back.

But also allowing the mechanics to see into the front office.

I could not cry.

No matter how much my eyes were stinging.

I took a deep breath, blinking rapidly until the wetness retreated.

Then I slowly gathered all of the cookies off the desk, shoving them back into the plastic container, allowing anger to replace my upset, even if they both created a similar shaky sensation inside of me.

Then I squared my shoulders and made my way toward the door to the garage, leaving the coffee for guests to help themselves to, and moved into the garage, the temperature immediately ten degrees colder thanks to the open bay doors. It only managed to make me feel even shakier.

But I had to do this.

I couldn’t let them get away with it.

I let the door slam behind me, making all their heads turn to watch me as I walked over to the open metal trash can and dropped the cookies—plastic container and all—into the bag.

“Ren,” I called, hating the cocky smirk that toyed with his lips. And the way I felt like I was going to shake apart in seconds. “If you ever speak to me like that again, you’re fired. Do you understand me?”

“I didn’t—” he started, that stupid smirk falling as a darkness crossed his brown eyes.

“Do you understand me?” I asked, each word its own sentence.

“Fine,” he said, embarrassed to be scolded, but clearly wanting to keep his job.

With that, knowing I was close to losing it, I strode toward my uncle’s old office, steps deliberate—quick but not hurried.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw David give me the smallest of nods.

“Bitch,” I heard mumbled just as I closed the door.

That was fine.

I could be a bitch.

So long as I wasn’t the rug they walked all over.

I locked the door, glad that my uncle kept all the blinds drawn in the glass room, so no one saw me as I sank down in his old torn leather chair.

And cried.