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Stacey pulled the lever to release her bonnet as I hung my jacket on my rear-view mirror and rolled up my shirt sleeves. I caught the look on her face before she turned away. She liked what she saw. Whatever her reasons were for setting her rules, Stacey clearly was attracted to me.
I used the towel to lift up the bonnet. Steam and smoke erupted from the engine, as well as a revolting smell. I coughed and waved the towel.
“Sorry to say it Stacey, but I think something was living in your engine and now it’s dead. Hard to tell what it was with all the smoke. She’s not going anywhere but you already knew that.”
Stacey sighed. “It’s been making a weird knocking sound all week and it got worse before the smoke.”
“Well, I think the smoke is mostly from this.”
I waved to where shredded paper and charred dog food were littered across the components.
“Ugh, probably rats or mice.” She groaned. “I’m pretty sure the technical term for the state of my car is ‘fucked’.”
I barked a laugh. “That’s about the right word for it, I’m afraid.”
She let out a grunt of frustration. “I drive. I don’t do engines. That’s Ryan’s job.”
“Ryan?”
“Brother. Mechanic. Part-time bartender.” She paused, and added with a grumble, “bad accountant and passable farmer.”
“Ah.” The smoke had finally cleared. I ran a quick eye over the state of the engine. “Been a while since he’s serviced the car.”
“What? He serviced it two months ago.”
“The condition of this engine is … bad. And not just the rat problem.” I unscrewed a cap and pulled out the dipstick. “Thought so, there’s hardly any oil. So the knocking noise could be your pistons or a piston ring issue. Let’s just say you were running your car on the power of prayer alone.”
Stacey cursed out Ryan under her breath before dialling his number on her phone. “I will kill him right after he repairs my car.”
I replaced the cap and wiped my hands on the towel. Again, no answer from Ryan.
“He must be still out in the paddocks,” Stacey muttered.
“I can give you a lift to work,” I offered. “And take you home tonight, too. It’s no problem since we’re both in Ballydoon. It’s your late finish day, yeah?”
Yesterday, I’d taken notice of Stacey’s roster for the week and was glad I did.
I bit the inside of my cheek. The idea of having Stacey sitting in Lorraine again made my blood run hot.
“Where are you staying in Ballydoon?” she asked.
“The pub. George Larcombe put me up there as part of my contract. Really, it’s no trouble to drive you home. I assume you live on Turner’s Creek Road, at Turner’s Creek Station?”
“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “How’d you—”
“Pub has historical photos in the dining room. They have one of Turner’s Creek Station.”
For a second, Stacey looked impressed, but she shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve got something after work.”
“Oh, right. Sure. But I’m not leaving you stranded on the side of the highway right now.”
A truck flew past us, the icy wind kicking up loose stones.
“Thank you. If you could drop me at the aged care home after work, that would be great. I’ll find a lift home.”
“You work at the aged care home, too?”
I rolled my sleeves back down, feeling inordinately pleased that she watched.
