“I do.”
“Engineer?”
“Business.”
“Specific.”
“Deliberately.”
Jake nodded.
He understood people who kept parts of themselves private.
“Car will be ready Tuesday.”
“That long?”
“Parts Monday.”
Claire looked toward the Mercedes.
“I need it this weekend.”
“Then you need another car.”
She stared.
Jake shrugged.
“I fix problems.”
“I don't negotiate physics.”
Something passed through her expression.
Not annoyance.
Interest.
Claire picked up her clutch.
“Call me when it's finished.”
Jake nodded toward the office.
“Leave your number with the desk.”
“There isn't anyone at the desk.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
Then reached into the clutch and removed a simple white card.
No logo.
No title.
Just:
Claire Weston
A phone number.
Jake turned it over.
Nothing.
“Minimalist.”
“I dislike introductions that tell people what to think before they meet me.”
Jake slipped the card into his shirt pocket.
“Fair.”
Claire walked toward the street.
Jake called:
“How are you getting home?”
“Ride share.”
“You're wearing shoes designed to punish sidewalks.”
She looked down.
“They're fine.”
“That's what people say before I have to drive them to urgent care.”
Claire laughed.
“Goodbye, Jake.”
“Claire.”
She left.
Jake watched longer than necessary.
Then returned to the Mustang.
He told himself he was thinking about the Mercedes.
He was lying.
The next afternoon, Claire came back.
Jake was beneath a Ford pickup when expensive shoes appeared beside the creeper.
He stopped turning the wrench.
Looked toward them.
“Car isn't ready.”
“I know.”
He rolled out.
Claire stood holding two coffees.
Today she wore dark trousers and a simple blouse.
Still expensive.
Less dangerous to grease.
Jake sat up.
“Did something happen?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I bought coffee.”
“That happens every day.”
“I bought you one.”
“That is concerning.”
She held it out.
Jake took it.
“You know what I drink?”
“No.”
“So?”
“I guessed.”
He tasted.
Black.
No sugar.
He looked at her.
“Lucky.”
Claire smiled.
“I’m observant.”
She walked toward the bench near the open service bay.
Sat.
Jake stared.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Conversation.”
He laughed once.
“You drove across town for conversation?”
“And coffee.”
“This garage is not known for either.”
“You're underselling yourself.”
Jake leaned against a tool chest.
Claire looked toward the Mustang.
“That the car from yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Customer?”
“Mine.”
Her expression changed.
“You own that?”
“Technically.”
“It looks like half the body is missing.”
“Restoration.”
“Why?”