This is a lie. Women would probably throw themselves at his feet if they got a look at him in those coveralls with his long dark hair curling at his neckline and those bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Farmer Joe, eat your heart out.
“I always knew you thought I was hot.”
His grin gets bigger. I roll my eyes.
“How you got that out of what I said is far, far beyond me.”
“Morning, Quinnie,” Oscar says, winking at me. With his salt-and-pepper hair, he’s far more worn-out looking than Lenny, but he’s got the sweetest green eyes. “You do look like shit.”
“Come on, guys,” I protest. “You’re killing me here. Can one of you tell me my hair looks totally rad? Please? Hell, just lie to me and we’ll be cool.”
“You look like a sweet sugar pie,” Matty says in his Texan drawl, which I absolutely adore.
“Now you nearly made that believable.” I grin.
He chuckles. Matty has only been in Florida for the last four years, before that he was a Texan boy through and through. He’s going to be handsome as all hell when he fills out from that young man to an older, more mature man. He’s got sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. His face is handsome, yet sweet and there are a good lot of girls who want to get their hands on him.
“What’re we pulling in today?” Lenny asks, coming up behind me and resting his hands on my shoulders.
“We need to move what’s already in here and then bring in as many more as we can get through before closing.”
“I’m on it,” Oscar says, disappearing into the office to collect the booking information schedule.
“I’ll do the little sedan,” I say, nodding to a red sedan that’s without its tires in the corner. “Tell me what it needs.”
“The alternator has shit itself,” Lenny informs me. “Got all the parts ordered in and ready to go. Also got some new tires for it.”
“Cool,” I say. “Well, let’s do this.”
I disappear into the office to get my things and then head into the female bathroom to put on an old pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved button-up shirt that’s seen better days. I quickly change, rolling up the sleeves on the shirt and lifting my black hair into a high ponytail.
Then I dare to look in the mirror.
I don’t like what I see.
They’re all right. I look awful. My eyes, which are usually dark brown, are bloodshot and there are some serious dark rings under them. My hair, black as the night, is limp and gross. I look drawn out and tired. I splash my face with some water and slap my cheeks a few times to give them color before heading back out to get started on the day.
I slide right on over to the car that will occupy my morning and get it raised up so I can slip underneath it. I get down to work and listen to the guys chatting casually as I do. The radio is playing through some speakers that are mounted on the walls, and every now and then one of the guys will laugh loudly, which always brings a smile to my face. They’re a dream to work with.
I finish the red car in about two hours and move on to replacing a few batteries and doing a few general services on some others that come in. Then I get to work helping Lenny fix the body of a car that has been in a serious accident. It’s not easy when there’s so much damage, but I do love replacing old parts with the new. It seems to give the cars a fresh vibe that most people are happy to drive away with.
“Yo, Quinn!” Jace calls just after lunch, when I’m head deep in the engine of an old Ford that sounds like it’s about to fall to pieces.
“Yeah?” I call.
“Call for you.”
Ugh.
Why must people be so needy?
I push up to my feet and walk into the reception area, lifting the phone. “Hello?” I say in my best chipper voice.
“Hello, Quinn, my name is Wesley. I’m calling about my car.”
I sit down, crossing my legs. “Sure Wesley, what’s the problem?”
“Well, Betty seems to be smoking quite a bit.”I blink. Betty?
“Ah, Betty?”
“Her name.”
Oh dear.
“Right.” I fight back a giggle. “And has Betty been doing this a lot?”
“No,” he says. “Well … she’s quite old. I’ve had her since I was just a teen, so it’s been a long time.”
Sounds like Betty is trying to blow herself up. I wouldn’t blame her.
“Has, ah, Betty been regularly serviced?”
He snorts. “Of course, she’s my pride and joy.”
Alrighty, then.
“Okay, listen, Wesley, it sounds like I might need to take a look at her. Smoke from the engine is never a good thing. Don’t worry, we’ll lead her away from the edge.”
Wesley is silent. “Do you think she’s on her way out and is trying to tell me something?”
Dear lord.
“I think so, Wesley. But we’ll see what we can do.”
“I’ll bring her right down!”
He hangs up the phone before I can even say good-bye. I shake my head with a smirk on my face when the bell above the door rings, indicating someone has just entered the office. I turn and my mouth drops clean open as I take in who just walked into my garage. I must be seeing things, because there is no way in hell I am actually seeing who I am seeing. It can’t be right. I blink a few times, I’m pretty sure I even rub my eyes. No way. It can’t be.
It is.
Tazen Watts.
Tazen freaking Watts.
He’s only a world-famous custom car builder. Everyone in Florida, the States and probably the entire world knows who Tazen Watts is. He has been building cars since before he was eighteen and is now well-known for his television show Hot Fury, where he is filmed building some truly amazing cars. Some of the best racers in the world have cars from him. He’s … epic. He’s not only built cars for racing, he’s also built customs for millionaires, celebrities and even for charity auctions. I’ve seen him on television, watched him, swooned over him like every other hot-blooded female in the world.
He was my idol when I was younger, I spent hours watching his show. He inspired me to keep following my dreams, even when I wasn’t sure this was the right place for me. Seeing the way he created such beauty, made me determined to one day build another car for myself.
And he’s in my garage.
Wait, why is he in my garage?
“Morning there, little angel,” he purrs, letting his eyes travel over my body.
I shudder. He just checked me out. Oh my lord, Tazen Watts just checked me out.
Swoon.
I changed into my coveralls earlier, when the job got a little more greasy, so I have them down, tied around my waist so he is getting a full view of my tank top–covered breasts and nothing more. I don’t like bras when I’m working. My breasts don’t agree with me on this poor choice, but they don’t get a say in the matter.
“Ah,” I say in a weak voice, and I know my eyes are wide and shocked. “C-c-c-can I help you?”
Great, just pretend you don’t know him. It’s better that way.
There’s a good chance I’m going to pass out.
“Yeah, you can help me all right,” he says, his eyes lusty. God, he has beautiful eyes. In fact, he has beautiful everything.