Clare Donovan had tried the ignition four times already. Each attempt produced the same result: silence.
Not even a sputter, just the quiet refusal of expensive machinery. She parked her sleek black car in Ethan Harris’s small-town garage, the fluorescent lights above flickering softly, casting shadows on the walls lined with tools and spare tires.
She stepped out, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. The smell of oil and metal was sharp, familiar, almost comforting in its”Of course,” she whispered. “Of all the days.”
Earlier that morning, she’d commanded a boardroom, closed deals worth millions. And now, she couldn’t even get her car to start.
Ethan looked up from a car he had been tuning. He was wiping grease from his hands, wearing a worn work shirt, jeans stained with years of labor, his face rugged but kind.
“Engine trouble?” he asked, tilting his head.