She turned.
An old flatbed truck crested the hill.
Faded paint.
Primer on one fender.
A slight lean toward the driver’s side.
The brakes shrieked when it stopped.
The Female CEO stared.
The driver door opened.
The man who stepped out looked nothing like anyone she would normally permit near the car.
Late thirties.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair pushed carelessly away from his forehead.
Short beard.
Blue plaid work shirt.
Faded jeans.
Dusty boots.
He looked tired.
Not temporarily tired.
Professionally tired.
The sort of exhaustion built by years of alarms before sunrise and bills arriving before money.
He carried a large travel mug.
He looked at the car first.
Not her.
That irritated her immediately.
The Single Dad took one sip.
“You call for a tow?”
“No.”
“Highway patrol did.”
He looked toward the hypercar.
“Said something expensive was dead on the shoulder.”
The Female CEO crossed her arms.
“It isn’t dead.”
The Single Dad looked at the silent car.
“Strong argument.”
“It has an electronic fuel-control failure.”
He nodded.
“Of course it does.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“My engineering team is working remotely.”
“Good for them.”
“They’re in Munich.”
“Even better.”
She stared.
He looked toward his truck.
“Where do you want it?”
“You cannot put this car on that flatbed.”
The Single Dad looked back.
“Why not?”
“The approach angle.”
She pointed.
“The undertray will hit.”
He studied the car.
Then the ramp.
Then the carbon-fiber splitter.
He crouched.
No hesitation about dust on his clothes.
The Female CEO watched him examine the underside.
After thirty seconds, he stood.
“You’re right.”
The answer surprised her.
People around her usually resisted being corrected.
He simply accepted the geometry.
“I’d need race ramps.”
He looked toward his truck.
“Don’t have them.”
The Female CEO gave him a tight smile.
“So we wait.”
“No.”
She frowned.
The Single Dad checked his watch.
“If I can’t tow it, I can’t charge you.”
“I’m leaving.”
The CEO’s control cracked.
“You cannot leave me out here.”
He paused.
Something in her voice had changed.
He noticed.
She hated that he noticed.
“I’ll pay for your time.”
The Single Dad looked at her.
“How much?”
“Whatever.”
“That’s not a number.”
“Name your rate.”
He studied her.
Not the dress.
Not the gold jewelry.
Her face.
The tightness around her eyes.
The sweat she pretended not to feel.
Something softened slightly.
“Open the engine cover.”