She tapped a cheap red pen against the desk. It was the only sound in the room. "Starting Monday, you will price match the distributor in the next county, or we will pivot our entire purchasing block to them. We spend roughly $8,000 a month on consumables and hard parts. You can keep 14% of something or 22% of nothing.
It is entirely your choice." Rick looked at Dean through the window. Dean raised his greasy hands in a slow universal gesture of surrender. "She's the boss." Rick swallowed hard.
"Fine, 14%, but I need the invoices cleared in 10 days. I have overhead." "Net 30," Clare countered instantly, not missing a beat, "and free delivery on Fridays." Rick threw his hands up, muttered something violent under his breath, and stormed out the glass door. The bell clanked miserably behind him.
Dean walked into the office. He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. He looked at the woman sitting at his desk. She was wearing the same cheap canvas jacket, her hair tied back with a rubber band she had likely found in the bottom of a drawer. She looked entirely ordinary, yet she commanded the room like a four-star general.
"You just bullied my supplier into a net-30 contract," Dean said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "He hasn't given me net-30 in six years. He's weak. He folded because his margins are bloated and he knows it," Clare said, logging the new terms into the prehistoric computer. "You just never pushed back."
"I fix cars, Clare. I don't negotiate trade routes." Dean studied her profile, the sharp uncompromising line of her jaw, the absolute stillness in her posture. "Where did you learn to do that?" Clare stopped typing.
She didn't look up. "Rule number three, Dean. Zero questions about my life before I walked through that door." "Yeah, well, rule number three is starting to piss me off." He pushed off the door frame, walking closer.
The smell of motor oil and sweat followed him. a heavy masculine contrast to the sterile bleach. You aren't a secretary. You aren't a bookkeeper. You talk to guys like Rick like you own them. You talk to angry customers like you're reading them their rights.
"Who are you hiding from?" Clare finally looked at him. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. For a brief second, Dean saw real exhaustion there. The kind of exhaustion that didn't come from a lack of sleep, but from carrying a weight that bruised the bone.
"I'm not hiding," Clare said quietly, the corporate ice melting just a fraction. "I'm resting." Dean didn't know what to say to that. The raw honesty in her tone shut down his frustration. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled $20 bill, and dropped it on the desk.