Cate hated the smell of motor oil. It clung to the air, sharp and uninviting, the kind of scent that made her regret not going to literally any other shop in the city. But her brakes had been making that ominous squeal for two days straight, and this place had good reviews. Or, well, decent reviews. And it was open. Supposedly.

It was too hot for this.

Too hot for the drive, too hot for her AC to be on the fritz, and definitely too hot to be standing around in the middle of a grease-stained repair shop getting actively ignored, like she didn’t have a thousand better things to do.

She hit the bell on the counter again. Waited. Drummed her fingers. Glared at the rusted clock ticking too loud above the desk.

Nothing. Not even a “be right there.”

“He-lloooo?” she called out, leaning slightly over the desk, hoping someone—anyone—would appear and rescue her from this slow, simmering spiral of inconvenience.

Still no answer. Just the soft hum of an oscillating fan and the faint clang of metal in the distance.

“Cool,” she muttered. “Guess customer service is just optional now.”

Her eyes flicked to the Employees Only sign on the swinging door behind the desk. Bold, underlined, clearly meant to be obeyed. Cate stared at it for half a second before muttering, “Screw it.”

She pushed through and stepped into the back.

She had no patience, not today, not with everything else weighing on her.

The temperature spiked immediately, the air thick with motor oil, sweat, and sunbaked metal. Rows of tools lined the walls, the floor littered with parts, the low hum of classic rock bled out from an old speaker in the corner. Sunlight spilled in through high windows, catching the slick sheen of the concrete floor and the smooth red curve of a vintage Mustang parked dead center.

And then she saw her.

Half-buried under the raised hood. All sinew and sweat and sun-streaked skin, like a scene stolen straight from a daydream. Like a centerfold for some illicit Mechanics Gone Wild calendar—that Cate absolutely would not admit to owning.

Suddenly, her car wasn’t the only thing in need of attention.

The woman didn’t see her at first—too focused on whatever guts and gears she was elbow-deep in, her other hand bracing herself on the frame. Her grease-stained overalls hung so low and loose at her waist they clung more to gravity than her hips. The sports bra she wore stuck to her skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Sweat shimmered across broad shoulders. Grease streaked her jaw. She was all grit and sun and strength and something else Cate couldn’t name but felt all the way down her spine.

Cate’s heart had no right to be fluttering this way.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than she expected. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

That got the woman’s attention. She straightened, swiping sweat from her brow and leaving a smudge of grease in its place. Her eyes—sharp, curious, disarming—met Cate’s.

“Can I help you?” she asked, voice low, edged in heat and diesel.

Cate had a dozen replies lined up, every single one of them wildly inappropriate. Better suited for the opening of a badly written porno than polite conversation. She went with the least incriminating. “Um…car trouble.”

One dark brow arched. “What kind of trouble?”

Cate blinked. She couldn’t remember the technical terms, not with that gaze pinning her. “Loud. Shaky. Uncooperative. Kind of like me on a bad day.”

The woman gave her a slow, knowing smile. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag, “sounds like she’s in the right place.”

Cate wasn’t so sure if they were still talking about the car.