Page 1 of To Belong Together
1
Had John heard right? His mechanic was a woman?
The front desk lady slid onto the stool behind the counter without looking at him to note his surprise, so she didn’t repeat herself. Yet he was fairly certain she’d said, “She’llbe right up.”
He stepped back from the counter, and his gaze wandered to the glass door between the lobby and the service garage of Hirsh Auto Repair. Would a girl mechanic be built like a truck? Or she might buck stereotypes and come out sporting long blond hair and fake red nails.
Not that appearances mattered. This was the twenty-first century, and the only quality he needed in a mechanic was the ability to fix his car’s squeak.
Determined to douse his curiosity, John turned from the door, snagged a waxy paper cup from beside the water cooler, and held it under the spout.
Work boots scuffed to a stop behind him. “John?” The upbeat alto voice drew his attention back over his shoulder.
Tall, but not truck-like at all, the mechanic had tucked her stiff uniform shirt in at her slim waist. Blue tips accented her short, raven hair, and a row of studs ran up her right ear.
Attractive, but with attitude.
She eyed the two other men seated in the waiting area.
Before John got his act together and answered her, an air bubble glugged through the water cooler. Water splashed over his fingers to the plastic grate beneath the spout.
“John Kennedy?”
“Yes.” He flicked the moisture from his hand as he turned from the cooler and found the woman’s bright attention on him.
She quirked a smile. “Here for a suspension squeak?”
Did the extra question mean she didn’t know him by sight? That’d be a refreshing change. Fans had been recognizing him, Gannon, and Philip everywhere since Awestruck moved to this small community in northern Wisconsin. The rock band’s notoriety was a privilege, but fame complicated the simplest interactions.
“That’s me.”
“People don’t usually have trouble hearing me.” The woman’s necklace had hooked on the top button of her uniform, and a gold cross glinted against her black shirt.
“Grandma always says the loud music will catch up with me.” He watched, but the reference to his job as Awestruck’s drummer didn’t earn him a second glance. He downed the water, tossed the cup in the waste basket, and extended his hand to her. “I’m John.”
Her smile broadened, bringing out dimples. She shifted the paper and key she carried to one hand so she could return the handshake. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. President.”
John laughed a little too heartily. He’d made his own mark on the name John Kennedy, and people rarely teased him about the president anymore. “You’re my mechanic?”
“I’m Erin. But I’m not your mechanic.” Her smile turned sly as she set the paperwork on a chair, slipped a jacket off a hook on the wall, and shrugged the garment on. “A mechanic is a backyard hack who’ll upsell work you don’t need and cobble it together so poorly, you’ll be stranded by the side of the road, calling for a tow before you realize what hit you.” She swept up the paperwork and pushed her back against the door to the lot, leading the way into the cold, white world of a Wisconsin March.
He’d initially heard the squeak in California, before the move. The shop there claimed to have fixed it. Either they hadn’t, or the terrible road conditions near his new house had knocked something loose again. To reduce the margin for error this time around, he’d requested his mechanic take a drive with him to hear what he heard before attempting to fix it.
And now he was glad he had. This would be an entertaining ride.
“So, if not a mechanic, you’re a …?” His breath puffed, a visible question mark.
“A technician who attended school to earn the right to touch your car, who’ll only sell you work you need, and who’ll do it correctly the first time.”
“And if you don’t?” He’d meant the question to continue the banter, but he must’ve hit a sore spot because an uncomfortable beat ticked away in silence.
“We have a guarantee. If the work isn’t done right, I’ll redo it, no charge.” The mischief seeped back into her eyes. “But don’t hold your breath on me making a mistake. I don’t get many comebacks.” She dangled his key, which he’d surrendered when he’d checked in, in front of him.
He overrode his pride, which hated riding shotgun in his own car, and resisted the offer. “You’re the expert.”
“I’ll be listening for the squeak.” The dimples returned full force, and her eyes sparkled with a friendly challenge. “Assuming you can make it happen.”
He snagged the key and opened the driver’s door. “Point me to the nearest bumpy road.”
