It was the shout that drew Blake from his office. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to abandon the slew of paperback he had to hack through every Friday — especially on Christmas Eve, but that shout did a damn fine job of it.

It was high-pitched, feminine, and as entitled as fuck.

He charged down the metal stairs leading into his workshop, his heavy boots making them rattle and clang in a cacophony of noise that almost drowned out the woman’s next yell.

“I never authorized this! Who gave you permission to—?”

“Is there a problem here?” Blake asked.

The woman — blond hair twisted into a knot that had begun to unravel slightly — spun to face him, blue eyes blazing. She stood beside a Mercedes Benz S-Class that had come in for a full service less than a week ago. She looked about to let loose on him, but then she pushed back her shoulders, drew a deep breath that did impressive things to her breasts, and slowly let out a long exhale.

“Are you the manager?” Her voice shook with the effort of civility.

“No.” Blake glanced past her at Fred — who’s pale face was a clear testament to the woman’s anger — and lifted his eyebrows. Fred backed away, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle as he sauntered to the far side of the wide workshop. Like him, Fred didn’t really have anywhere to be tonight. He’d split up with his old lady a couple months back, and it was her turn with the kids this Christmas. From what Blake could gather, Fred’s evening would consist of some takeout, a six pack of beer, and anything that wasn’t Christmas related playing on the box.

Sounded a lot like his evening.

“Well, I need to speak with the manager. Immediately.” Her voice had almost risen back to a shout.

“I’m the owner, so I guess I’ll have to do,” Blake said. He gestured toward the Merc. “What’s the issue here?”

“The issue?” The woman blinked at him as if, for a moment, she’d forgotten what the issue was. Her gaze fell to his chest and then flickered to his arms and back to his eyes an instant later.

Blake looked down at himself. Had he gotten coffee on his—

Right. No coffee — just grease. Lots and lots of grease.

It didn’t help wearing clean clothes to the workshop. It didn’t help cleaning the workshop. There was always a car to slide under, always a leaky gasket to drip oil on him as he pointed out a tricky issue to one of the junior mechanics on staff. So he wore one of two vests — both used to be white, neither of them were anymore — and his pair of fraying, torn jeans. There were overalls, but… he hated the things with a passion he usually reserved for restoring his classics at the dead of night.

This grease monkey was probably not what she expected the owner of anywhere to look like, even if it was a repair shop.

She looked like someone had dunked her in the river. Blake glanced past her — snow sifted down like confetti outside the garage’s open door. Had she been walking through the snow to have gotten so wet?

“The issue,” the woman said, tugging absently at the damp lapel of her beige power suit, “is that there were unauthorized repairs carried out on my car. I was expecting a substantially lower bill.” Her voice dropped at ‘substantially’ and Blake saw what he thought might have been the precursor to tears.

Dear God, don’t let the broad start crying. The last thing he needed on a Christmas Eve — takeout and warm beer be damned — was a crying customer. He didn’t get them often — he did good work — but he did get them. Especially when it turned out that the ‘clank’ they kept hearing was something more serious than a damaged CV joint. Jesus, and it was almost closing time.

Blake turned his wrist, glancing down at his watch.

“We’re closed, lady.” Blake’s eyes darted up, catching Fred trying to sneak into the back. “We’re closed, Fred!” It was probably a little harsher than the poor mechanic needed, but it did the job. Fred would stay in the garage with Blake some nights, working on the odd job until Blake couldn’t see straight from exhaustion and booted him out so he could get some sleep.

Fred threw him a dramatic shrug and scampered into the locker room, leaving Blake and the woman alone.

Her foot began to tap.

Blake stared down at it, irritation slowly blooming inside him. She wore beige heels — slightly muddy — that almost perfectly matched her wet, beige suit. The only splash of color was a pink ruffled shirt that peeked out between her colorless lapels.

That, and her eyes. A luminous, sapphire blue. Her makeup had smudged, and he had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with a walk in the snow.

“Look, lady—”

“Elle,” she cut in with a sniff.

“Look, ma’am.” Blake crossed his arms over his chest. “We authorize all additional repairs. We would have spoken—”

“No one called me.” Her voice was starting to shake again, those eyes beginning to brim. “My husband—” she cut off hurriedly. “I was told it would be five hundred for the service. So I brought five hundred—”

“We’ve got a card machine.” Blake turned and headed for his office. “If you’ll follow me?”

There was a murmured protest, and then the clack of heels following him. Blake glanced around as he made his way through the workshop. He caught a glimpse of Fred leaving.

Christ, this Elle chick must have reminded him too much of his ex — he hadn’t seen Fred that eager to leave in a long while.

“Hang on a sec, ma’am.” Blake detoured, ignoring the bleated, “Elle” that followed him.

He slapped his palm over the garage door’s mechanism, and watched to make sure it was closing before turning back.

He almost walked into Elle.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, sapphire eyes wide and frightened.

“You think the crooks around here take time off on Christmas? I don’t want someone looting the place while we’re busy.”

“Busy?” came the strangled protest.

Blake stared at her with a frown. “Busy paying, ma—” He cleared his throat. “Elle. Busy paying. My office is upstairs.”

He led her up the rattling stairs, glancing back in time to see her hurriedly avert her eyes from his back. Jesus, he looked rough, sure, but the chick didn’t have to stare like she’d never seen a man before.

The familiar smell of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee met him as he elbowed open his office door and stepped aside so the woman could enter. She blinked at him, seeming caught off guard by his chivalry before stepping inside and glancing around like a trapped rabbit hunting for an exit.

“Would you like a towel?”

“A… what?” Elle snapped her eyes away from the overflowing ashtray on his desk. Blake stepped in front of it, ripping a towel off the nearby basin’s rail. He’d converted the office from a kitchen, breaking down the wall between it and a small storage room when he’d moved premises a few years ago. It was still pokey, but it did the job.

“To-wel.” Blake enunciated the word carefully, in case the woman had gone deaf. “You’re dripping on my floor.”

“Probably the closest thing to a clean this place has ever seen,” the woman mumbled.

Blake narrowed his eyes at her, and she had the decency at least to blush a little. He turned and began hunting around his table.

“Last name?”

“Georgia.”

“So E. Georgia?”

There was a pause. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was hesitantly touching the edge of the towel to her hair as if scared she’d catch an infectious disease from it. It was clean, the prissy bitch.

“No… S. Georgia.”

“S?”

“My hus—ex husband.”

Blake let out a low whistle. “How’d you swing that, your ex paying for your car repairs?”

Elle hesitated, the hand holding the towel dropping to her side.

“He’s not paying for it. I am.” She grabbed her handbag and maneuvered it in front of her, drawing out a purse. “Except… I’m a little short.” Her voice became unsteady again. “I was expecting to pay five hundred.”

“Told you we’ve got a card machine.” Blake held out his hand.

Elle paused, wallet gripped in a white-knuckled hand. “That… wouldn’t make a difference. He’s cut me off.”

“Sorry?” Blake dropped his hand, pushed a file out of the way, and sank onto the edge of the table. “What do you mean, he cut you off?”

“My…” She shook her head. “Sam. My ex-husband.” Her voice did that thing again, dipping and wavering, and she pressed her palm over her breastbone as if trying to still her heart. “Could… would you… could I—do you have coffee?”

Blake glanced surreptitiously at the woman over his shoulder as he made them both a cup of coffee. She had a death-grip on herself, hugging her arms tight, and her pointed stare at the far — okay, not that far — wall made it obvious she was desperately trying to keep her shit together.

Her clothes were obviously something too expensive for him to even wrap his head around. She drove an S-Class for fuck’s sake. This woman was rolling in it, and she was trying to get out of a few hundred bucks?

He came back with the coffee. Elle seemed reluctant to release the grip she had on herself to take it, but wavered a second later. Cold fingers brushed his when he handed her the cup, and she twitched as if he’d shocked her. He hadn’t… at least, that tiny tingle couldn’t have been static discharge — not with her that wet and the complete lack of carpeting anywhere in this joint.

“Wanna sit?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” She blew over the coffee, her eyes meeting his for an instant before darting away. Taking a careful sip, she gave a small nod. “Good.”

It wasn’t. But it was hot. And, from the tiny shiver she gave, it was obvious warmth was something she desperately needed.

“Look, lady—”

“Elle.”

Blake let out a slow breath. “Elle. Why don’t you come back on Monday? We can go through the file. I’ll show you the call log—”

“No. Now. Today.” Her wide eyes found his, fixed him with a persistent stare. “I have to get my car today.”

“Then you’ll need to pay. Today.” Blake shrugged. “We take Diner’s Club too.”

Elle lifted her chin, taking a defiant slug of coffee. “I’ll pay the five hundred today and the rest next week.”

“Full payment, or you don’t get the car.”

They had a brief staring contest. Blake won.

Elle’s gaze fluttered away as she stepped up to him. For a moment, he thought was going to hit him or throw the coffee in his face. But instead, her lips twisted and she hurriedly set the cup down with a shaking hand.

“Asshole,” she whispered. “That motherfucking—”

“Excuse me?” Blake dipped his head, eyebrows lifting as he tried to look into her eyes. She kept them downcast, her mouth squirming as if had to rally another valiant defense against her tears.

“Sam. That asshole cut me off. My credit cards. My bank account. Everything.”

And now a tear did come — small, crystalline — and he watched it in deep fascination as it trailed down her cheek and slid into the corner her mouth. She didn’t seem to notice.

Elle hadn’t stepped away — she was close enough for him to grab, if he wanted. He pushed the thought away, chastising himself for its inappropriateness.

“He’s the one that slept around, not me.” Her eyes darted up to Blake’s, daring him to argue. “I was going to leave him. But he beat me to it. Had it all planned out. That mother—”

“Hey, okay. Whoa. Elle?” Blake set his coffee down beside hers. “We seem to have gotten derailed—”

“I have nothing,” Elle went on as if she hadn’t even heard him. “He’s changed the locks. My bank pin. My passwords, everything. Told the security at our building not to let me in.”

She washed a hand down herself. “This is it. This is all I have. That and—” her wallet clicked open “—this. Four-hundred-eighty.” Elle waved a handful of bills in his face. “Take it.”

Blake lifted his hands in surrender. “Look, lady—”

“It’s Elle!”

“Elle…” Blake tried for a calm voice, and failed. “Look, it sucks. I get it. But I’m running a business here. If you don’t have the money, you come back Monday.”

Her hand trembled. She shoved the notes back in her wallet and shoved that back in her handbag. Turning her back to him, she went to the basin and began scrubbing her hands at the sink.

“I understand. This is a business. I get it.” But then, under her breath. “Fucking motherfuck.”

He suppressed a smile, took a slug of coffee, and let his eyes slide over Elle’s bent back.

Her suit clung to her. Her hair, those strands that had escaped her bun, were slicked against her head and throat. She had wide hips, but with breasts to balance them out. And her ass—

“I’ll just have to pay you in installments.” Her voice had returned to the willful, entitled tone of before.

Blake pulled his gaze up, meeting her eyes. God, no wonder her husband—

He immediately stomped on the thought. No woman deserved to be cheated on. Even one as obviously annoying and belittling as this one.

“Company policy, Elle. If I made an exception for you, I’d have to—”

“You’re the owner of the company.” Her voice was deadpan now. “I’m sure there’s some wiggle room—”

“There’s none. Either you pay and take your car, or I keep it until you do.”

God, if his dad could see him now. Arguing with a customer at half-past-seven on Christmas Eve. He’d never seen his dad argue with a customer. All it had taken was a smile, a calm explanation of fact, perhaps a cup of coffee — better than this one, of course — and the customer would be paying with a smile. Why hadn’t some of that charm rubbed off on him? He’d spent enough time with the old man before—

Blake pushed away from his desk and swept a hand toward the door. Elle stared at him as if he’d grown horns. Then she slowly set the towel down on the side of the basin, paused, and began working at the single button holding the front of her suit closed.

Blake frowned. “What are you…?”

“I’m sure—” She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes. “There must be something that I could…”

Realization dawned. And, with it, a sense of incredulity so vast that Blake barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Elle’s eyes snapped up, the fiery blue of a welding torch.

“I’m sorry—” He said through a strangled laugh. He lifted a hand. “Are you seriously—”

Those eyes narrowed. “I need my car.” Her jaw clenched, her words emerging muffled. “And I need it today.”

“Whoa, lady. Listen—” he stepped forward, hand still up “—I don’t know why you’re so—”

“Today!” Elle stamped her foot.

Blake slowly folded his arms over his chest. Had she seriously just stomped her foot at him?