Chapter 1

BOOK ONE: VROOMS, BROOMS, AND HEIRLOOMS

Most days, I could tell what was wrong with a car based on the sound it made as it rolled to a stop in front of Sunray's Auto Shop. Judging from the wheezing, groaning squawk currently outside, it was going to need an exorcism.

"Yikes," I muttered to the oil reservoir cap I was unscrewing under the raised hood of a Mazda.

"Probably took it to Speedy Zone," Boxy, my co-conspirator/co-manager, called from...somewhere. Even with his cane, he moved stealthily, like a sixty-something-year-old ninja wearing overalls. He'd been working on the Chevrolet next to me not two seconds ago.

"Boxy?" I asked, glancing around. "You here, or did I dream you up?"

He reappeared from behind the Chevrolet and winked with the only eye he could wink with. The other was made of glass. He liked to take it out sometimes to let my cat familiar, Professor Studmuffin Salvitore III, play with it, which...sure. Why not?

"Better take a picture to prove that dreams really do come true," Boxy said.

"I'll get right on that." I grinned and pointed to a red-striped quart of oil on the shelf next to his head. "Hand me the high-mileage oil?" I turned back to the Mazda, and when my favorite ninja didn't deliver, I glanced over and did a double-take at the velocity of Boxy's jaw dropping to his knees.

"Vic," Boxy whispered to me, "it's him."

"Him who?"

"He Who Only Comes Out at Night," Boxy hissed, his gaze pinned to the windows of the garage.

He Who Only Comes Out At Night was Boxy's nickname for the new owner/manager of Speedy Zone across town, Travis Black. I knew him when we were little. I also knew his dad, and that was bad enough. Speedy Zone had re-opened about two months ago, complete with bikini-clad women washing cars and coupon booklets to help draw customers. I knew all of this because those same customers came to Sunray's Auto Shop shortly after. The hocus-pocus they'd gotten at Speedy Zone hadn't fixed their cars. That was some stellar managing, especially since no one ever saw Travis except at night. So, had he invested in some SPF 10,000 to grace us with his presence before the sun went down?

"Checking out his competition, probably," I muttered.

Professor Studmuffin Salvitore III slipped into the garage part of the shop from the waiting room door, the smell of his three-layer chocolate buttercream cake drifting in after him. My stomach grumbled. That would be dinner later. Maybe even dessert. Part familiar, part baker, all cattitude, the handsome tom strolled across the cement floor to investigate.

"Not too close, Studmuffin," Boxy warned.

The cat turned and gave him serious stink-eye for questioning his judgement.

I snorted a laugh.

The demon-possessed car outside cut its engine. A long shadow slanted across the sidewalk outside.

"Quick." Boxy pulled his large blue-and-white striped railroad cap low over his face as if hoping it would swallow him. "He's coming. What do we do?"

"Uh, hand me the quart of high-mileage oil?"

He pointed at me with his cane. "Yes. Act natural. Where is it again?"

Footsteps approached outside.

"Behind you on the shelf to your...left."

He shuffled right, the fingers not on his cane waving into jazzy grabby hands.

I pressed my hand to my thigh to make the letter L to be sure I was correct. I often confused left and right because of my dyslexia. "Other left."

"Bah!" He stabbed his cane into the ground to jazz his way in the other direction.

I hid my grin behind my shirt collar. It was ninja crazy town in the shop, our normal, and I loved every second of it.

He handed me the quart just as the door to the shop opened and dinged the overhead bell.

I turned and looked, my curiosity about why Travis was here getting the better of me. My gaze stuck briefly to his broad chest. He was tall with short sandy-blond hair, late thirties, and two spurs and a hat away from full-on cowboy if his boots were any indication. Worn jeans and a red flannel completed his ensemble. He also wore a big blue ring on his index finger that appeared to glow slightly. Maybe it was just the sunset streaming through the windows playing tricks with my eyes though.

I allowed myself a second to drink him in for a beat while the urge to tell him to get lost tipped my tongue. If he'd grown up to be anything like his dad, I already didn't like him.

"So..." Without glancing at either Studmuffin right at his feet, Boxy, or me, he threw an utter look of disdain around the shop. "This is Sunray's."

A simmer started low in my gut from that look alone, so I dismissed his existence by leaning over the oil reservoir with the quart and my tongue firmly planted between my teeth.

"Hey there. Boxy here." Boxy limped past me, wiping his free hand down the front of his overalls, and then thrust it toward Travis.

"I don't know what that is," he said, his voice gravelly as if roughened by sleep.

"It's a hand. You shake it," Boxy said, his sarcasm on full drip.

"I mean Boxy."

"Oh, that's my name. Or that's what my friends call me."

I could hear Boxy's mind working to determine whether to give his real name or not, something he usually reserved for lawyers or politicians.

"Do you always keep it so messy in here?" Travis asked.

A low hiss seeped through my clenched teeth over the glug-glug of oil. This shop charged my blood, was my home. Hearing someone like him, some rando who didn't know anything about cars come in and ridicule it, made me want to high-five his face with a metal chair. I straightened, turned, and sliced him with the sharpest glare I could muster.

He met my fury with wide, hazel eyes, side-lit from the sun to a mossy green color. They tracked over my turquoise ponytail, my black tank top underneath my open work shirt, my plaid shorts, and down to my steel-toed work boots.

"If you're here to get your car fixed, we can do it," I said, snapping his gaze back to mine instead of vacationing over the rest of me with the tone of my voice. "Otherwise, you can go now."

He pointed at me but turned to Boxy. "You let customers in here work on their own cars?"

Just like the hundreds of times before I'd heard a comment like that, I gathered it up between my knuckles and crushed it. My boiling simmer cranked high and fizzed underneath my skin, growing especially hot under the collar of my work shirt that clearly read SUNRAY'S AUTO SHOP. Only not so clearly when I glanced down. More like SU AY TO P with all the oil stains.

Boxy slapped his hand to his forehead and dragged it down his whiskered chin. "Oh, you've done it now, boy-o."

"Meow," Studmuffin agreed and licked one of his white murder mittens.