laughed, saying no more as I continued working on an older Honda whose owner had let her idiot boyfriend swap the original four-cylinder engine for a V6. He’d asked my advice on it while the car was in for a turn signal problem—he was the kind of asshole who wanted to stand there and watch me work, because he knew everything about cars—and I’d told him it could be done, technically, but should not be done by anyone who wasn’t a certified mechanic because it would require so many modifications.
But did he do it anyway? Of course he did.
And now it was on me to try to clean up the fucking mess he’d made. It was a tedious, expensive job, the kind of thing that normally would put me in a pissy mood. But today, my mood was just fine.
“Are you whistling?” McIntyre asked around noon.
“What? No.”
“Yes, you were. I heard it. What happened, you get laid or something?”
“Fuck off.” But I was glad he couldn’t see my face.
“You did. I know you.”
“What? Griffin got laid?” Handme came strolling over, wiping his hands on a blue shop towel. “Was it the new receptionist?”
“Will you guys stop? It’s none of your fucking business whether I got laid or not.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” McIntyre’s grin was all-knowing. “Where’d she sleep last night, Dempsey?”
I clenched my jaw and turned back to the Honda.
He burst out laughing. “Yeah, I heard all about how you rescued her from sleeping in her car from Emily. You left out that part of the story yesterday when you told me she was just passing through town.”
Fucking Cheyenne. She and Emily were best friends, so no doubt my sister had gone blabbing the moment I’d left the house yesterday.
“So does this mean she’s here to stay?”
“No,” I snapped. “It means my sister cannot keep her mouth shut to save her life, and it’s impossible to keep anything private around here.”
“If I were you, I’d keep her around,” said Handme. “Did you taste one of those things she brought in this morning? She only let me have one because she said they were for customers, but it was really good. And the lobby smells like a bakery.”
McIntyre was already heading for the door to the waiting room when I called after him. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
“I just want to sniff the lobby, that’s all,” he said.
I knew what he wanted to sniff out—some gossip—so I followed him, grabbing a towel on my way out. Handme was quick on my heels.
In the lobby, Blair stood beaming behind the desk chatting with old man Dodson, who was eating something. I smelled fresh coffee and something sweet, and she’d propped the front door open, letting in a summer breeze as well as the sunshine.
She waved us in. “Hey, guys. Come try the scones. Mr. Dodson here came in just to taste one. He heard about them already.”
“Really?” I asked, moving deeper into the room. My hands weren’t clean, so I refrained from taking a scone off the tray—had that been in my apartment?—but I had to admit they looked delicious. Golden and fluffy and dripping with some sort of glaze that caused my mind to wander toward inappropriate territory.
“I sure did.” Mr. Dodson finished his scone and brushed off his hands. “I just saw Charlie Frankel at the diner and he said he’d been in here earlier this morning and had the most amazing pastry. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but he said he hadn’t tasted anything so good in years.”
Blair smiled at me and said, “Mr. Frankel came in to make an appointment for a tune-up, and I offered him a scone. Apparently he liked it.”
“I’ll say he did. He showed up at the diner raving about it, told everyone it was the best thing he’s tasted since Betty’s apple pie.”
“At least three other people came in to say hello and taste one after overhearing Mr. Frankel at the diner,” Blair said proudly.
“Did they make an appointment?” I asked.
“No,” she admitted. “But they all introduced themselves and said nice things about your dad. A couple said they’d be back soon.”
“Frankel will probably be back every morning,” Mr. Dodson said. “I think he’s in love with your wife.”
I sighed heavily, my eyes closing. “She’s not my wife.”
“I also took their names and email addresses down for our new mailing list,” Blair continued. “I said I wanted to be sure they got an invitation to our party.”
“What party?”