THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORBIDDEN MECHANIC

My name is Tola Hayes, I'm 24 years old, and I hate billionaires. I hate their shiny watches, their stupid expensive suits, and the way they think the whole world should stop because their car made a weird noise. And right now, one of them is standing in my garage, looking like he owns the place. "How long will this take?" he snaps, his voice cold, impatient, like I'm wasting his precious billionaire time. I don't even look up from under the hood of his precious Range Rover. The damn thing is worth more than my entire shop. Matte black, custom edition, $200,000 minimum, and still smelling like New York money and expensive cologne. The license plate says NEW YORK. Of course. "For you? A week," I say, tightening the wrench in my hand. "A WEEK? Are you out of your mind? I have a board meeting in Detroit in two hours! I need this car fixed NOW." I finally stand up. My old gray overalls are covered in oil, my hair is tied up in a messy bun, I have a smear of grease on my cheek, and I know I look nothing like the girls he is used to. The i********: models, the Manhattan socialites. He, on the other hand, looks like he just walked out of a GQ magazine. Tall, at least six foot two, broad shoulders, sharp jawline, blue eyes as cold as ice, and a charcoal suit that probably costs more than three months of my rent. His dark hair is perfectly styled, even though he looks like he wants to rip it out right now. I saw his name on the registration when I pulled it from the glove box. Xavier Sterling. CEO of Sterling Corporation. Thirty-two. New York's most eligible billionaire. And according to Forbes last month, worth $2.8 billion. Great. A billionaire is stuck in my dying auto shop in Detroit. "Look, Mr. Sterling," I say, crossing my arms. "Your fuel pump is completely fried. Your oxygen sensor is dead. And you drove this beautiful machine like you were in a Formula 1 race from New York to Detroit. I can't do magic. I need parts that I don't have." "I'll pay double. Triple. Just name your price," he says, pulling out a black American Express card like it's a weapon. Like money can fix my bad attitude. "I don't want triple," I say, and I can see that shocks him. "I want time. Three days. My parts guy from Chicago comes on Thursday. That's the earliest I can get a fuel pump for a 2025 Range Rover Autobiography Custom. No one stocks that here. This is Hayes Auto on 8 Mile, not a dealership on Fifth Avenue." "Three days is unacceptable," he growls. He steps closer. I can smell him now. Expensive. Sandalwood, cedar, and something dark and masculine that makes my stomach do a weird flip. I hate that. "Do I look like I care what's acceptable to you?" I snap back. "You have two options. You can tow it to a dealer in downtown Detroit and they will charge you $5,000 and take two weeks. Or you leave it here, I fix it in three days for $800, and you learn some patience." He stares at me. No one has ever spoken to him like that. I can tell. Men like Xavier Sterling are used to everyone saying yes. Yes, Mr. Sterling. Right away, Mr. Sterling. Whatever you want, Mr. Sterling. "There's a motel two blocks down," I add with a sweet smile that I know annoys him. "The Star Lite. They have hot water sometimes. And free coffee that tastes like mud. You'll love it." His jaw clenches. A vein pops in his neck. God, he is handsome when he is angry. Which is a terrible thought. I should not be thinking that. "No woman has ever made me wait," he mutters, almost to himself. "Well, congratulations," I say, turning back to his engine so he doesn't see my cheeks turn red. "I'm the first. Get used to it." There is a long, heavy silence behind me. Only the sound of the old fan spinning in my garage and cars passing on 8 Mile outside. Then he speaks again, much closer this time. So close I can feel his heat behind me. "You have no idea who I am, do you?" His voice is lower now. Not angry. Dangerous. Curious. "Oh, I know exactly who you are," I say, refusing to turn around, my heart beating way too fast. "You're the guy whose car is broken. And I'm the only girl in Detroit who can fix it. That's all that matters in this garage. In here, you are not a billionaire CEO. You are just a guy with a broken Range Rover." I finally turn around. We are inches apart. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Those blue, cold eyes are not cold anymore. They are burning. Dark. He is looking at my lips, at the grease on my cheek, at my eyes. No man has ever looked at me like that. Like he wants to be angry but can't stop staring. His lips twitch. Almost a smile. The first one I've seen. "Three days, Miss Hayes," he says softly. "You better be worth the wait." "Oh, Mr. Sterling," I whisper, holding his gaze. "I am." Behind me, the wrench slips from my sweaty hand and clatters to the floor, making us both jump. The moment breaks. He exhales sharply, runs a hand through his perfect hair, and steps back, putting that billionaire mask back on. He has no choice. He is stranded in Detroit. In my town. In my shop. And I have just made an enemy out of a billionaire. Or maybe... something much more dangerous than an enemy.