Chapter One

CAM

Fuck me, another one? Cars just keep turning in to the parking lot. This one parks in front of the open bay, despite the large Do Not Block Bay Doors sign at eye level on the exterior wall. Some people don't see the signs, others choose to ignore them. Either way, there's a reason for the sign. The moment someone blocks the bay is exactly when we need to pull a vehicle in or out of the shop. Pretty much every damn time.

Normally, I'd holler out at the driver. This time, I don't even turn my head to see who it is. No point hollering for them to move their vehicle. I'm nowhere near finished replacing the alternator on this Cadillac, and I'm sure as hell not bringing another car inside until I finish at least one job. Plus, there's nowhere else for them to park out front. The shop is over capacity.

I've had my bay door open all day, mainly to save those few minutes it takes to raise and lower the thing. Right now, I need every minute I can get. And I can't get enough. Doesn't matter that I've been starting a couple of hours before we open, working through lunch hour, and banging away at jobs long after the doors are locked and the sign says Closed. I can't keep up. Each day I'm alone on the job, I fall further behind.

Under the Hood is a two-man shop. Has been since I officially joined the family business, exactly one second after high-school graduation. By the time I completed my apprenticeship, business had nearly doubled, and it continues to grow every year. Dad and I work well together. Same work ethic, same attention to detail and dedication to a job well done. We're run off our feet every day. Sure, we grumble a little from time to time. Shit gets exhausting. But we'd both rather be busy than sitting on our asses in the breakroom.

Customers flocked to the shop back when Dad was a one-man show, just starting out. An honest man who's a quality mechanic doing solid work for a fair price—he always had more demand than he could keep up with. Even with two of us doing the work, there's never a time when our schedule isn't full. It's a rare thing when my sister Shelby can give someone a same-day or next-day appointment without it feeling like she's dropping a half-ton on us. Nobody's getting a rush appointment now. Won't be for a long time.

Hopefully, we won't lose customers permanently. People are understanding in the personal sense, but they need what they need, and if we can't get them in, they'll have no choice but to go elsewhere.

It's been less than a week since my dad broke his hand. Under the Hood is back to being a one-man shop—but with the client base and workload for two full-time mechanics. Dad's going to be off for six weeks, minimum. The doctor might okay him for light duty earlier, but Shelby and I agreed not to let Dad set foot in the shop until he has the final all clear. We both know he'd last all of maybe ten minutes on light duty. Then he'd see something that needs doing, and he'd just do it, setting his recovery back. Maybe injuring himself a different way while compensating. Then we'd be even more fucked.

Until I find a mechanic to help out, I'm on my own. No idea when I'm supposed to review and interview the applicants Shelby keeps adding to the pile of papers on my toolbox. I barely have time to throw back a coffee or take a leak. I can't choose just anybody to fill in, even temporarily. Under the Hood isn't just where I work, it's part of the family.

"Yo, Cam—where are you hiding?"

"In the front end of the silver Caddy." Still elbow-deep in the engine compartment, I crane my neck so my buddy sees my head. "You're right on time. Roll your sleeves up and help me get the belt on this alternator."

Tony coughs up a laugh while picking his way around the disaster covering every visible foot of my bay. "You're going to have to find another helper for that." He runs one clean, probably callus-free hand down his slick, dark-green tie. Always green. The color of money, he says. It's his wardrobe signature. Has been since he got his job selling at BMW. He's good at what he does.

Almost as good as I am at my job. "Unless those pretty-boy shoes have steel toes," I tilt my head downward, "I'm going to need you to stand behind the red safety line."

"What red safety line?" he asks, glancing around on the floor.

Got him. Awesome. "There isn't one, precious."

"Asshole."

"Hey now." I raise an eyebrow when he makes a move like he's going to give me a punch. "You sure about that? Even with my hands currently out of play, you're still only getting one shot off. And the one I'll give you in return isn't just going to hurt, it's going to get grease all over that pristine white shirt." I give him a big grin. "Notice I said pristine and not prissy."

"Dick." He follows the insult with a laugh, then slides his hands into the pockets of black suit pants. "I am a little softer than I used to be, than I'd like to be. We should hit the heavy bags one of these days."

"Sounds good. Not going to happen until my dad's back at work, though. I have less than zero free time until then."

"Yeah, your parking lot is insane. I had to park in front of the bay door."

"That was you?" I pull my hands out of the Cadillac and step around the car so I can check out what he's driving this week. "The M4. Nice."

"You ever want to switch to something new and German, I'll hook you up, man. Say the word."

"Ford."

Another coughed-up laugh bursts from Tony's mouth. "Never going to give them up, huh?"

"Can't. It's in the blood."

Tony nods. Growing up together, he spent nearly as much time at my house as his own, and vice versa. So, he respects the bond I have with my dad that includes a lifelong passion for Mustangs and F-150s—the older the better for both.

"You driving Granger's pride and joy while he's laid up and can't drive stick? I didn't see it parked down the side of the building. Makes sense for you to keep it inside, in your dad's bay, so it doesn't get damaged in that nightmare of cars out front."

Seems the news of my dad's new relationship hasn't spread all over town yet. That's good news, in case things don't work out. Which they won't. Not long-term.

"I've got jobs on his side," I say, jerking my head toward the other side of the shop. The load-bearing wall down the middle obscures most of the view. From Tony's current vantage point, all he can see are my dad's toolboxes. "The Mustang is at his friend's house." The semi-lie curls in my gut. Or maybe that's just fucking hunger, since all I've eaten in the past six hours was a donut for breakfast and the banana Shelby insisted on watching me eat when I wouldn't take a lunch break. "I have to get back to work."

"Sure, I get it." He doesn't, not really.

But that's my problem, not his. "What brings you by, anyway?" I ask as I return to fighting with the alternator belt from hell.

"Yeah, about that."

When that's all he says, I turn my head in his direction and find him wincing. "Spit it out. Since all you drive are demos from the dealership, I know you don't want me to fix a car—thank fuck. You and Vanessa fighting again? Want to grab a beer later, watch the game?"

"Thanks, but no. Vanessa and I are good. Solid and tight, in all the best ways."

"And if you're ever going to want me to sit across from her at a dinner table, then make those your last words on the subject of your sex life."

My buddy grunts a laugh. "When did you flip the maturity switch all the way on?"

A year and a half ago, when my mom died suddenly, and I watched my father, the man who'd always been a rock, crumble under the weight of his grief. "We're thirty, buddy. It was time. So, what do you need that you're chickenshit to ask?"

"To take a quick look at Izzy's car."

"Fuck!" I hiss when I pinch my goddamn finger between the pulley and the belt. Not the Cadillac's fault this time. Distraction gets the blame. I step away from the job, shaking off the sting. "Tell me you're talking about some other Izzy—not your little sister."

"The one and only. But, heads up, don't call her Izzy anymore. She's going by Isabel now. Guess she flipped her maturity switch, too. You should get along great."

"We're not going to get along at all, Antonio. First of all, when someone wants a mechanic to ‘take a quick look,' it means something went seriously wrong, frequently because they've been ignoring an issue until it's at the breaking point. And as you can see, I don't have time to take anything else on. Not until I find a fill-in tech, and I have no fucking idea when that's going to happen. So, Izzy's going to have to take her problem elsewhere."

"Come on, Cam. You're the best around. The only mechanic—and man—I trust with my baby sister. She can come down after hours if that's better. Just tell her what the car needs, and then if it has to wait until you can squeeze it in, it waits. I just want her to be safe and it really sounds like a piece of shit. Please. I'll owe you, brother."

Asshole, pulling the brother card. He knows family always comes first for me. But I'm still seeing red flags, even if he's not the one holding them. "Was this Izzy's idea? Did she send you down here to ask me?"

Because that would fit. Izzy was infatuated with me since she was old enough to follow me and Tony around. Growing up, the kid was my shadow every time I set foot in their house. Unshakable. Even a locked door didn't keep little Izzy out. Wouldn't surprise me if she became a cop or a private investigator with her lock-picking skills. When she was twelve, she moved away with her mom after their parents divorced, but not before she'd planned our wedding and named our future children. Bad as I felt about their family splitting, I was relieved to see Izzy leave town. Having her pining after me during her teenage years would've been hell.

"Actually," Tony says, lightly tugging at his shirt collar, "she was adamant I not ask you. So, I'm going to catch hell about this, but Iz can suck it up for the few minutes she'll have to spend around you."

"Yeah, she'll hate having to be around me again. Right." Winking, I shake my head before going back to the job I need to finish. "Tell her to come by at closing time. I'll get a hoist open and give it five minutes."

"Appreciate it, buddy. So will Izzy."

Appreciation, I can accept. But if Izzy has anything in mind besides car repairs, she's going to be sorely disappointed. I tolerated her over-the-top infatuation when she was a kid. Now that she's an adult, I can be honest with her—I'm never going to see her as anything other than my best friend's little sister.