Dean Miller was 36, but the heavy bags under his eyes and the permanent grimace etched into his jawline made him look a decade older. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in a fine layer of grime. A smudge of black grease slashed across his cheek like war paint. He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag that was already completely saturated with oil, and walked toward the counter. He looked at Clare, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in.
She was wearing a cheap jacket, but the jeans underneath were tailored. Her boots were muddy, but the leather was imported. She didn't belong here. She looked like someone who had taken a wrong turn on the way to a country club and decided to slum it. "If you're here for the Volvo, the parts are still on back order," Dean said, his voice a low, gravelly scrape.
"I told you on the phone, screaming at me doesn't make the supply chain move any faster." "I don't own a Volvo," Clare said. Her voice was flat, measured, the same voice she used to dismantle hostile shareholders. "I'm here about the sign." Dean stopped wiping his hands.
He looked at the cardboard sign taped to the door, then back to Clare. He let out a harsh, humorless breath. That might have been a laugh. "Right, sure. You want to turn wrenches?"
"I don't know the first thing about cars," Clare replied, holding his gaze. "But your office looks like a paper bomb went off. Your phone has been ringing since I walked in, and you're currently paying a child in chalk to stay out of the mechanic's bays. I can answer phones. I can organize.
I can sweep." Dean stared at her. The phone on the wall behind him began to ring. It was a shrill, piercing sound. From the back of the shop, a supplier yelled something about a missing manifest.
The air compressor kicked back on with a deafening roar. At his feet, the little girl broke her chalk. She let out a high-pitched wail of frustration. Dean didn't move. The muscles in his jaw jumped.
He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling the earth crumble beneath his boots. He wasn't just tired, he was drowning. the shop, the kid, the bills, the relentless grinding weight of keeping his head above water. The phone kept ringing. He threw the oily rag onto the counter. It landed with a wet slap over a stack of unpaid electric bills.
He leaned forward, bracing his heavy hands on the laminate, putting himself at eye level with Clare. "Look around, lady," Dean said, his voice dropping below the noise of the shop. It wasn't angry. It was bone deep exhaustion. I'm three weeks behind on rent.
My parts guy has me on a cash-only basis. I've slept four hours in the last three days. And my daughter's babysitter quit yesterday because I couldn't pay her on time. Clare didn't blink. She just listened.
Dean dragged a heavy hand down his face, smearing the grease further into his skin. He looked at the ringing phone, then down at his kid, and finally back at Clare. "I don't need an employee to sweep the floors," he said quietly, the cynical edge in his voice fracturing just enough to reveal the desperation underneath. "I need someone to pick up my kid from school. I need someone to figure out what's for dinner so she doesn't eat vending machine crackers again.