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I got it, but I was fired up.
I was ready for this interview, and I sure as fucking hell wasn’t going to walk out without proving to this guy I was more than worthy of his job.
***
I slowly pushed open the door to the garage and stepped into the uncomfortably familiar reception area. A bell over the door dinged, and when I looked up, I saw a tiny, brass bell—much smaller than the one my grandfather had installed years ago.
The noise was much nicer, that was for sure.
I smoothed my hands over my dress as I approached the counter. There was crashing at the back, followed by a rough grunt of a cuss word.
A smile tugged at my lips as I cast my gaze around the room. It was all so clean and tidy. There was a scarlet-red sofa beneath the windows, and a mahogany coffee table scattered with magazines stood just in front of it. A large, leafy plant occupied the corner, its leaves just tickling the corner of a retro car sales poster pinned to the wall.
“Jesus,” came a low mutter from behind me.
I turned with a start, my hands coming together silently in front of my stomach.
The door behind the counter shut, and when I blinked, I was able to focus on the guy standing in front of me.
Who was, quite possibly, the most handsome guy I’d seen in a long-ass time.
My gaze wandered over him. Navy blue overalls covered his legs, and he’d tied the sleeves at his waist. A white t-shirt hugged an obviously muscular body, and everything from his large hands to his toned biceps were splattered with oil and grease.
I lifted my gaze another couple inches higher. To his face. To the five o’clock shadow that dotted his jaw. Full lips. Bright-blue eyes surrounded by unfairly thick, dark eyelashes. And a head full of hair the exact same shade of brown as his lashes.
He wiped at his forehead, pushing the hair from his eyes—and swiping oil across his skin. “Sorry about that. Slipped on some water and kicked the corner of a tool box.” He grimaced. “What can I do for you, darlin’?”
“I have an appointment with Dexter Ryne?”
He held out his hands. “You’re looking at him.”
Well, that was easy.
“I’m Jamie Bell.” I offered my hand over the counter.
Dexter Ryne froze. Slowly, his gaze moved over my face as if he were drawing a sketch in the air with his eyes, taking in every inch of me. Then, it moved to my hand.
Here we go again…
I let my hand fall back to my side and suppressed a sigh. “You emailed me yesterday? About the interview? I have my resume right here.” I pulled it out of my unzipped purse and set it on the counter between us.
He dropped his attention to that, blinked, and shook his head. “Jamie Bell. Sure. But…You know this is for a job out the back, right?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“I’m not in the habit of applying for jobs I’m not qualified to do, Mr. Ryne,” I replied sweetly. “I’m fully aware of that fact.”
“It’s Dex. Mr. Ryne is my father…and my grandfather.” He eyed me speculatively, then snatched up my resume. “I wasn’t aware women worked as mechanics.”
“Then I’m thrilled I’ve been able to enlighten you that we exist.” I tried to stay sweet, but I couldn’t. A hint of sarcasm tinged my words.
He glanced up, raising one eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he left me standing here while he scanned my resume.
“This doesn’t say you’re a woman,” he said, putting it back down.
“Do you say you’re a man on your resume?”
“My name gives it away.”
“I’ll be sure to inform my parents they should have given me a name that hinted more at my gender,” I replied dryly.
His lips twitched, but whatever smile was forming, he fought against. “I’m not sure I’m a fan of your attitude.”
I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Then we have something in common, because I don’t much like yours.”
Both his eyebrows shot up. “What experience do you have?”
“I worked weekends from fourteen until I graduated. Became an apprentice the next day, and worked up until a year ago. I’ve since been working from home.”
“Why?”
“My father had to sell his garage.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I struggled to get work.”
Would he figure it out?
Nothing that looked like recognition flitted across his expression, so the answer was probably no.
“Right.” Short and sharp, I knew he didn’t buy the truth he was being fed.
Prejudice. It was written all over him. I could hear it in his words, I could sense it in the way he held himself, and I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me.
The slightly frizzy haired brunette in the tailored black dress and high heels, wearing the light, gray sweater and carrying the Coach purse.
