The Boy Toy

Again she felt her cheeks heat up, making her feel ridiculous. “You may as well, it’s such a lemon.”

He appeared taken aback. “Well, ma’am, we’ll see if we can’t make some lemonade for you. Name?”

“Allison Tracy.”

“Ms. Tracy. You been here before?”

“Yes. Why do you think I’m so ticked off?”

He fought a grin. “I wouldn’t dare to guess what makes you tick, ma’am. Phone number?” Before she could protest, he explained, “It’s how we look up your records.”

She rattled off her home phone number.

He pecked at the keys. “Ah, here you are. Let’s verify that all your info is correct.” He read off her work phone number, her addresses for there and home.

She nodded wearily.

“So you have a 2003 sedan, purchased from us last October.”

“A 2003 lemon,” she reiterated. “I’ve been in here repeatedly complaining about how poorly this car runs and all I get are runarounds and assurances it will be fixed and it never is. And by the way, while I’m here, I’d like to have a few words with that salesman who sold me the bucket of bolts.”

He squinted at the screen. “Dub Dexter? Afraid he’s off today.”

“Did you say Dud?” she taunted sweetly, strangely not feeling the least bit disappointed that the salesman was absent. “More likely he’s hiding under another one of your clunkers.”

He swung toward her, his mouth quirking in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What exactly is your problem, Ms. Tracy?”

“It’s not my problem, it’s your problem.”

“Okay, then. What exactly is our problem?” He frowned at the screen. “Other than, I can tell it’s time for your next oil change and lube.”

Allison went warm again. Why did the word “lube” sound so sexy coming off those sensual lips of his? She’d never before been turned on by mechanic’s lingo. But never before had she met a mechanic quite like him.

She realized he was waiting for her reply, one brow quizzically cocked. She cleared her throat and began. “The problem is, you people sold me a forty-thousand-dollar piece of junk. I make my living in sales—”

“Oh, do you?” he interjected dryly.

She clenched her jaw. “My car has serious engine problems—problems which you morons have failed to repair.”

“Is that so?” he asked mildly.

She waved a hand. The problems with her car cooled her libido. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to take a client out to lunch, then have your engine pitch like a bucking bronco when you try to drive him back to his office?”

“You serve a male clientele, do you?” He smiled. “You see, even a moron like me is smart enough to catch that one.”

That did it. Allison shot to her feet. “Look, I came here to get my car serviced, not to be insulted by some smart-ass shop jock with wandering eyes and a swelled head. Why do they let creeps like you work here, anyway?”

“Beats me, ma’am,” he drawled back. “Maybe creeps like me make good grease monkeys.”

She clamped her arms over her chest. “I want to deal with someone else.”

He tapped his pen on the desktop. “Are you sure, ma’am? It could mean a wait—maybe a long one.”

“Damn it. I don’t have time for this. I have a couple of important meetings scheduled.” Feeling equally frustrated and defeated, Allison slid back into her chair. It galled her that this buckaroo with a grease gun seemed to be besting her—yet a small measure of respect rose up for him, too.

With a maddening look of smug satisfaction, he inquired, “Any other problems?”

“Yes. The engine ticks like a damn bomb. You mor—that is, you people—have failed to fix that, as well.”

He scribbled at his clipboard. “Okay, then.”

“Okay? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

He glanced at his notes. “Engine ticks like a bomb, bucks like a bronco. That about cover it, ma’am?”

Allison was becoming exasperated. “Well, you don’t have to act so glib about it all. Don’t you have any idea why I’m having these problems, or how to fix them?”

He scratched his jaw. “I know these females tend to be temperamental.”

“Now you’re comparing me to my car?”

He leaned back in his chair and winked at her lazily. “Well, ma’am, a car is just like a lady. Sometimes all they need is just a little TLC.”

“Brilliant. I can tell my car is in excellent hands with you. Did you even pass fourth grade?”

“Well, ma’am, I—”

“Let me know when you’ve TLC’d the problem.”

For a moment the two just stared at each other, tension crackling in the air between them. Allison had to admit to herself that she was intrigued by the way this shop stud held his own with her.

Then he leaned toward her and continued in a more intimate, yet still slightly mocking, tone. “Actually, Ms. Tracy, what I was about to say was, even though I am a moron, and even though an intermittent engine problem can be very difficult to diagnose, I’m guessing your pitching and bucking problem could be due to a defective ignition module. But we’ll have to, er, scope the engine to be sure. As for the ticking, that could be a sticking valve lifter.” His voice dropped a notch. “That’s where the right lubrication is critical. You see, we hesitate to tear into an engine this early in the game. Less than 6,000 miles on your little baby there. So, after we change your oil and gas her up, we’ll see if some of our super snake oil won’t, um, smooth up your ride.”

There he was again, talking about lubrication, sexual innuendo ripe in his tone. Allison didn’t rattle easily, but this cowboy mechanic was unnerving the hell out of her. Enticed much more than she cared to admit, she muttered, “Fine. Scope and snake oil away.” She stood, tugging her jacket and skirt into place. “How long will this take?”

He was also on his feet. “With luck, we’ll get it done by closing time.”

“Uh, the man I spoke to on the phone said I might get a loaner.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but we’re all out this late in the day. However, our courtesy van will take you back to work.”

“Great, I’m without wheels. And I have some important appointments this afternoon.”

“So you’ve told me.”

She shot him a look of thinly veiled hostility. “Don’t I get a claim ticket or something?”

He shook his head. “Don’t use ’em anymore. Basically, these days, if you’re not in our computer, you don’t exist.”