Chapter 2 — First Impressions at the Garage
Jack
The bell above the garage door let out a half-hearted jangle as the door creaked open, admitting a draft of cool autumn air. Jack Lawson barely glanced up from his workbench, where he was hunched over a rusted carburetor, carefully cleaning its jets with a wire brush. A thin stream of golden light cut through the high windows, dust motes swirling lazily in its path as the scent of motor oil and aged wood filled the space. The faint hum of an old radio played in the background, a mellow tune from the ’50s that Jack barely noticed anymore.
He heard the sharp click of heels on the concrete floor, deliberate and distinct, like an outsider announcing their presence in a place where they didn’t quite belong. Jack allowed himself a brief glance toward the sound, just enough to confirm what he suspected: the city woman. Claire Montgomery.
Her sleek blazer and pencil skirt might have belonged in some high-rise boardroom, but here, amidst the oil stains and antique tools, she looked as out of place as a diamond on a workbench. Even so, her posture—straight-backed and purposeful—told Jack she wasn’t here to take no for an answer. He returned his focus to the carburetor, determined to keep the interaction as short as possible.
“Excuse me,” she called, her voice crisp with a polished edge, though there was a trace of weariness beneath it. “Do you have an update on my car, or was I wrong to assume this was a professional operation?”
Jack straightened slowly, setting the carburetor down with a metallic clink. He wiped his hands on a rag, more to buy himself a moment than out of necessity, and turned toward her. Her hazel eyes gleamed with impatience and something sharper—control, maybe. As her gaze darted around the garage, taking in every dented tool chest and oil-streaked surface, there was a flicker of unease in her expression, like she wasn’t quite sure where to stand without ruining her shoes.
“Still waiting on the part,” Jack said evenly, his voice low and steady. He kept his sentences short on purpose, knowing full well it unnerved people like Claire. “It’ll be a few days.”
“A few days?” She let out a disbelieving laugh, brittle and sharp. “You can’t be serious.” Her manicured hand gestured to the space around her, nails catching the light. “This is your whole business. Surely, you’ve got a workaround. Or is ‘waiting on parts’ the best you can do?”
Jack’s jaw tightened, but he let the comment roll off him. He wiped his fingers clean on the rag and kept his tone level, letting his words take the edge off hers. “Rare parts take time. Unless you want me to duct-tape your engine together—not really my style.”
Her lips parted, ready to fire back, but she hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the workbench. Something shifted in her expression. Her irritation gave way to something quieter, and her brow furrowed as her eyes lingered on a tray of wrenches.
“These look… old,” she said, almost to herself. Her fingers hovered above the tools, careful not to touch them. “Antique, even.”
“They are,” Jack said, stepping closer. “Belonged to my grandfather. Still work better than anything you’d buy new.”
Her hazel eyes lifted to meet his, softening for a moment before her professional composure snapped back into place. “You keep them in good condition.”
Jack shrugged, glancing at the tools. “Takes care of the job, I take care of them. Simple as that.”
Claire didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted back to the tools, her fingers hovering just above the polished metal as if she were afraid to disturb their equilibrium. Jack recognized the look. People didn’t usually notice the tools, but when they did, something about their history always seemed to draw them in. For Jack, each tool carried the weight of his grandfather’s hands and their shared hours in this very garage. He wondered briefly what Claire saw in them, how she seemed both drawn and hesitant, her frustration momentarily forgotten.
“It’s like stepping into another time,” she murmured, the sharp edges of her voice softening. She glanced around the garage, her gaze catching on the old radio humming its timeless tune. “I doubt most places still use tools like these.”
“Not a bad thing,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Sometimes the old ways work best.”
Claire tilted her head slightly, studying him, and Jack shifted his weight under her gaze. It wasn’t the usual look he got from customers—the polite indifference or exaggerated gratitude. No, Claire looked at him like she was trying to figure him out, peeling back layers he wasn’t ready to show.
He cleared his throat and turned back toward the workbench. “If you’re done critiquing my tools, maybe you’ll take my word on the timeline for your car.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Jack thought she might snap back with something sharp. Instead, she let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Guess not,” Jack replied, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. He caught the way her eyes flicked toward him at that, like she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused.
Claire rolled her eyes but didn’t leave. Instead, she wandered toward one of the cars parked near the far wall—a midnight-blue Chevy Bel Air. The polished chrome trim gleamed in the afternoon light, and her steps slowed as she approached it. She circled the car, her heels clicking softly against the concrete, her fingers tracing the lines of the metal with surprising reverence.
“This one’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, almost wistful. The sharpness in her tone had vanished, replaced by something Jack couldn’t quite name.
“’57 Bel Air,” he said after a pause. “Belonged to a guy who used to drag race back in the day. His son brought it in to get it restored.”
Claire glanced over her shoulder, her hazel eyes sparking with curiosity. “Restoration seems to be a theme around here.”
Jack nodded, his gaze steady. “Everything deserves a second chance.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the radio filled the space, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves outside. Jack wasn’t sure what to make of the quiet that settled over them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly—more like the kind of silence that stretched when words couldn’t quite do the moment justice. He didn’t trust it, though. Silence like this had a way of sneaking in under your guard if you weren’t careful.
Claire broke the stillness, her voice sharper again. “I should go. Let you get back to… whatever it is you’re doing.” She gestured vaguely toward the workbench.
Jack nodded, shifting his weight. “You know where to find me.”
She hesitated, her hand resting lightly on the Bel Air’s hood. “Thanks. For… well, for dealing with this.” Her tone held an edge of reluctance, but it seemed genuine enough.
Jack inclined his head, watching as she turned and walked toward the door, her heels echoing softly against the concrete. The bell jingled faintly as she stepped out into the golden afternoon light, and then she was gone.
For a long moment, Jack stood there, staring at the door. He didn’t know much about Claire Montgomery yet—just enough to recognize that she was the kind of person who wasn’t afraid to push boundaries. The kind of person who could upend a quiet life if you let her.
He exhaled slowly and turned back to the carburetor. He’d spent years keeping everything in his life exactly where it belonged, like the tools on his bench—polished, predictable, and under control. He wasn’t sure yet if Claire was a distraction or something more, but one thing was clear: she wasn’t going to make things easy.
