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CHAPTER THREE

Dasha

Something was off with the books.

I mean, if you can even call them ‘the books,’ that is.

It was more like a disorganized stack of receipts and notes in such horrible chicken scratch writing that I could only make out every third or fourth word.

Still, the numbers just weren’t adding up.

True, math had never been my strong suit. Or even my third—or fourth, or, fine, fifth—best subject in school. Still, I did know how to add. And double-check my results with the handy-dandy calculator app on my phone. Even when I rounded up the numbers, assuming that my uncle didn’t want to nitpick on change, it didn’t even come close to adding up.

I was just coming to that realization when David knocked, threw open the door, and let a strange man into my office.

I mean, I wasn’t complaining. Because, dang, what a man.

He looked like he stepped out of a magazine ad for some designer watches or cologne or something. All tall and fit under an expensive-looking suit, with one of those classically handsome faces with a strong jaw and somewhat brooding brow, warm honey-brown eyes, and dark hair that was cut a bit longer than you would expect for a man in a suit.

Everything about him dripped money and confidence and sex appeal.

Then there was the scent of him. Rich coffee and creamy cocoa. It was the most intoxicating scent I’d ever smelled before.

I usually kind of hated men’s cologne. It was too spicy for me. But whatever this guy had on, it was delicious and subtle, begging you to lean in closer, maybe press your nose into his neck…

Okay.

Yeah.

I needed to focus.

On literally anything other than how good he looked and smelled.

Or, you know, that smooth, sexy sound of his voice when he spoke, and how his mouth moved around the words.

Good God.

What was wrong with me?

I literally spent my days surrounded by men. All of them were, arguably, pretty good-looking. I never reacted like this to them.

To be fair, the men I worked with were openly hostile and talked crap behind my back. So, yeah, maybe I was just responding to an attractive guy being nice to me for a change.

He was, too.

Nice.

He even smiled when I let my mouth run away with me. Like he was charmed by me. Or, you know, that was more than likely wishful thinking.

Either way, I wasn’t exactly upset that he would be coming back in a week to talk.

About what, I had absolutely no idea.

But maybe the infernal paperwork would give me some answers.

“Why the hell didn’t you have a computer?” I grumbled at the empty room once Santo Grassi—and his sexy voice, gorgeous face, and delicious cologne—was gone.

A computer, printer, scanner… all that stuff was necessary for running a business. Or, at least, running a streamlined one. Clearly, Uncle Phil had been managing with his old-school system. But only he knew how to organize it.

“Still can’t figure out why you left this to me,” I murmured to the urn I’d placed on the corner of the desk since I couldn’t imagine anywhere in the world Uncle Phil would want to spend eternity but in his garage.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” David asked, making me jump and turn to find him leaning in the doorway. He was sipping coffee out of my duck and bunny mug that he’d kept for himself after that failed first attempt to connect with the mechanics.

“You startled me,” I said, annoyed with how fast my heart had tripped into overdrive. “Did you need something?”

“That guy was out of here fast.”

“We, uh, rescheduled,” I said. “I’m trying to… sort all this mess out. He seemed to sense that.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Depends. How good are you at reading… whatever language this is supposed to be?” I asked, waving a piece of paper at him.

“Yeah, Phil had shit handwriting. Always had to ask him to tell us what his notes said. Can’t help you with that.”

“Can you tell me why he didn’t have a computer?”

“Phil couldn’t even figure out how to work his cell. He was never gonna figure out a computer.”

“You make it sound like they’re new inventions. They’ve been common for the past, like, forty years.”

“He still had an 8-track in his truck,” David reminded me.

“He has a VCR at home too,” I added, shaking my head. “And one of those rear-projection flat screens out of the ‘90s with a massive stand underneath it. I don’t even know how or where I can get rid of it.”

“You’re living at Phil’s place?” David asked, making my spine straighten, wondering if I’d just confessed something I shouldn’t have. Was it crossing some professional line to talk about where I lived?

“Uh, yes. At least for the time being. I moved here from Washington.”

“D.C.?”

“State.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you move here?”

“To… run the garage.”

“Do you even know what a camshaft is?”

“A shaft that contains a row of pointed rams used in a piston engine to operate the intake and exhaust valves.”

Did I sound like I was quoting a textbook? Yes. Because I totally was.

See, when I was met with instant and overt hostility from the men at the shop, I decided to open one of my uncle’s old books and learn at least the basics of how an engine worked. I was never going to be on my back under my car changing my own oil. But now at least it wouldn’t feel like a mechanic was speaking a foreign language when they were talking to me about what was wrong with my car.

“Been doing some light reading, huh?” David asked, shooting me a small smirk. “You know that’s not gonna help you with them out there,” he said, waving his mug toward the men in the garage.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “But at least they won’t be able to throw it in my face that I know nothing about cars anymore.”

“How old are you?” he asked, making my brows shoot up.

“Is that relevant?”

“Twenty-two? Three?”

“Five. Older than some of the guys out there,” I reminded him.

“And younger than the rest.”

“You’re older than me. Does it bother you that I’m here?”

His answer to that was to shrug and sip from my mug again. “So long as my paycheck keeps coming, I’ve got no issues.”

With that, he was gone.

I mean, it wasn’t the answer I wanted. David seemed like my only ally at the shop. I kind of hoped he would tell me he was fine with my presence, that I might even be a good thing for the garage.

I guess I needed to stop trying to find friends at my workplace. I wasn’t used to being in charge. My last job had been at this little indie clothing store where we were all just equal. It was the kind of environment where we had fun and laughed all through the shift, then hung out afterward.

I’d left all of that behind.

To come here.

Where everything and everyone was cold and distant, if not outright hostile. Where I was suddenly, unmistakably, horribly alone.

“Ugh,” I grumbled, rubbing at my tired eyes.

If I could just figure out the books, work out where the money was coming from and going to, then maybe find a little spare cash so I could spruce the place up a bit, get a computer, get everything automated, then maybe I could, you know, step away a bit. Let the place kind of run itself. Find something else to do that brought me a little more joy.

Really, I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking when I’d decided to uproot my entire life without even, I don’t know, visiting this Navesink Bank place, seeing the garage, checking out the house I’d be living in.

Had I done so, maybe I would have seen what a stupid move this all would be before I made the mistake of quitting my job, giving up my apartment lease, and leaving everyone and everything I knew behind.

I could have just… sold the house and the garage. Got an entirely different house. Newer. Less musty. Not so full of junk that I tripped when I tried to do anything.

But no.

I’d gone and taken this whole situation like some sort of sign from the universe that it was time to try something new, to take a chance, to give something new a try.

I could still sell, I reminded myself as I grabbed another pile of handwritten receipts. I could get the house cleaned out and cleaned up while I got the shop’s books in order. That way, when I put them each on the market, they would sell for the best price.

That was motivation enough to get me through the next several hours of writing down everything I came across, putting them in columns, trying to get a better idea of what was jumping out at me as wrong.

Then, finally, around the time that I heard the guys heading out for the day, the garage doors grinding closed, I saw it.

There, in my columns, were glaring discrepancies.

“Am I locking you in here?” David asked, making me turn to look at him.

“How much is an oil change?” I asked.

David’s brows pinched at that. “Depends on the car. Low-end, fifty.”

“And on the high end?”

“Hundred or even more. Why?”

“Hm? Oh, no reason,” I said, giving him a smile. But not a real one; one of my customer service smiles. “But, yeah. Go ahead and lock me in. I want to get the rest of this pile done before I head out.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, turning and walking out.

If the most expensive oil change we charged was around a hundred bucks, even if you tacked on taxes or some other B.S. charges, why were there routinely charges for oil changes costing over three hundred dollars?

What the hell was going on around here?

Outside, I heard David’s car purr to life just as I found another handwritten note that had my spine straightening, that had me forgetting all about my grumbling stomach and aching head.

Sure, it was in Phil’s usual chicken scratch.

But there was one word that was painfully clear.

Grassi.

So, the new question I had to add was: who the hell was Santo Grassi… and why the hell were we paying him fifteen hundred dollars a month?