Susan Mallery - California Girls

“I’ve got a guy who needs fog lights and brackets for his ’67 Mustang. The computer says we have fog light kits but when I went back to get them, I couldn’t figure out what was what.”

Ali Schmitt waited as her printer spit out the end-of-week inventory control log. She looked at Kevin and raised her eyebrows.

“Really? What was unclear?”

The eighteen-year-old shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “You know. Ah, which ones he, ah, wants. Ray said to make sure I got it right because there’s a difference between the ’67 and ’68 Mustang.”

Kevin had been with the company all of six weeks. He’d hired in as a picker—the person who literally picked parts off shelves and took them over to the shipping department, where they were boxed up and sent out to customers. Ray, Kevin’s boss and a man who lived to terrorize all the new hires, had given the kid a difficult job, probably for sport.

Ali looked at Kevin and knew she’d been just as confused when she’d been hired. She’d had the added disadvantage of not being that into cars, although in the past eight years, she’d certainly learned plenty. While she would never physically quiver at the thought of a fully restored 1958 Thunderbird, she could hold her own in most car-related conversations. She was also something of a motocross expert, at least when it came to parts. In truth, she’d never been on any bike with an engine and her skills on the kind you pedaled were average at best.

“What year?” she asked, putting her inventory sheets on her battered desk, then walking over to one of the computers used to check availability. “The Mustang. What year is it?”

“Um, a 1967?” His tone was more question than statement.

“You need to be sure,” she said as she punched in a few keys, then arranged two pictures side by side on the screen.

She pointed. “The one on the left is a 1967. See the bar across the front grille? That bar runs behind the fog lights and holds them in place. No bracket required.” She pointed to the picture on the right. “On the ’68 Mustang, there’s no bar, so the fog lights are held in by a bracket. If you’re looking for a ’67 with brackets, there’s no such animal.”

Kevin was nearly a foot taller than her, but as she spoke, he seemed to shrink.

“Okay.” He drew the word out into three syllables. “So there’s a problem with the order and I need to get it confirmed.”

“Exactly.” Ali smiled. “You need to talk to Ray.”

Kevin went from confused to scared. “Do I have to?”

Ali sighed. “Yes. He’s your boss.” She hesitated, then gave in to the inevitable. Somehow she was always the one shepherding the new guys through their journey with the company. “He has a dog. Coco Chanel. There’s a picture on his desk. Do not, under any circumstances, make fun of the picture. Simply notice it and tell him she’s the cutest dog ever. Then ask him to help you confirm what the customer wants.”

Kevin’s expression of confusion returned as he considered her advice. Ali knew once he saw the picture of a five-pound Chihuahua dressed as a pirate all would be revealed.

“Thanks, Ali.” Kevin started to walk away, then he spun back to her. “Didn’t Ray already know there was a problem when he told me to go find the fog lights?”

“Probably. He wanted to see if you could figure it out on your own.”

“Oh.” Kevin’s skinny shoulders slumped again. “But I couldn’t.”

“Not today, but with time. When in doubt, look up the car and confirm you have the right part.”

“Good advice. Thanks.”

Ah, to be that young again, Ali thought with a smile, then she picked up her inventory sheets before glancing at the clock on the wall. Not that she didn’t love her job, but she had so much to get done this weekend. The wedding was only seven weeks away and her to-do list had quadrupled in the past few days. Tonight she wanted to check for RSVPs, pack another cupboard in her kitchen, then narrow the centerpiece options down to two. She’d already chosen the flowers and now had to pick the style of the centerpiece itself. The florist wanted a final answer by Monday morning and Ali was determined to settle on her favorite by then. If only her favorite didn’t keep changing.

She left work right on time, a big win on a Friday, then headed for her local grocery store. She was on a strict low-carb diet—again—so bought salad and a rotisserie chicken. Despite the loving whispers from the tortilla chips and the macaroni salad, she kept to her list, paid in the self-checkout and reveled in a bit of self-congratulation. She’d accepted she wasn’t going to be skinny for her wedding, but now that she’d had her final fitting, she couldn’t put on any weight. Not that it was ever the plan, but there were days when the only thing standing between her and madness was a cookie.

She drove to her apartment and parked. She was halfway up the stairs to her place when she saw someone standing by her front door. A tall, male someone with dark hair.

She recognized the set of his broad shoulders and narrowness of his waist. When he turned, she saw the familiar three-day beard on his strong jaw. One thing she and Glen had in common was that neither of them was the most attractive sibling in the family. She had to contend with both Finola and Zennie being prettier than her while Glen had to deal with his younger brother, Daniel.

Although Daniel wasn’t conventionally handsome, there was something about him. Something dark and just a little bit dangerous. A woman knew, just by looking at him, that she was taking a risk—while the sex would be amazing, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance he would steal her car afterward.

Metaphorically, of course. Because Daniel wasn’t a thief—far from it. He was a successful businessman who owned a motocross track. He was, ironically, a really good customer of hers—all those bikes he rented needed maintenance and therefore parts, which was where she came in. In theory that connection should have made them friends, and they were. Kind of. There was just something about the way he looked at her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but in the back of her mind she was fairly sure he found her lacking. Or just plain uninteresting. None of which explained why he was standing at her apartment door.

He watched her approach. For a second his whole body stiffened. As if he didn’t want to talk to her. As if he wanted to be anywhere but waiting for her. She stumbled to a stop, not sure what to do or say. She instantly felt defensive and resentful—both of which were a huge overreaction considering the man hadn’t even spoken. Jeez. Daniel was Glen’s brother. After the wedding, he would be her brother-in-law. She really had to figure out how to get along with him.

She forced a big smile. “Hey you. This is a surprise. I’m going to be picking out floral centerpieces later. Want to offer your opinion? You can represent all the men attending, and if any of them complain, I can say it’s all your fault.”

She waited for him to say something. Anything. Instead he simply stared at her. The defensiveness returned, accompanied by a big dose of insecurity. Why did he have to be a jerk?

“Ali, I need to talk to you.”

There was something in the way he spoke—an urgency that got her heart beating faster. It suddenly occurred to her that this wasn’t a social call at all. Something was really, really wrong.

“Is it Glen? Is he hurt? Was there a car accident?” Glen was away on a job. “Did his plane go down?”

“Nothing like that. Glen’s fine. Can we go inside?”

Ali managed to open her front door. She shoved the groceries into the refrigerator, dropped her purse onto the counter, then turned to find Daniel standing in the middle of her small living room as if he had no idea what to do next. She ignored the rapid beating of her heart and the way her legs were shaking. Whatever it was, if Glen was fine, she would handle it. There might be screaming or crying or both, but she would get through it.