When Snow Falls (Whiskey Creek #2)(41)
Author: Brenda Novak

“No, but Eve’s gone for another week. I don’t see why I can’t get to know Cheyenne. Maybe the attraction will fizzle before Eve even comes back. I’d like to explore the possibilities, see if there’s anything there.”

“Right. Okay.” She paused again, as if thinking it through. Then she said, “I’ll do what I can to help.”

The bell over the door jingled. Twelve-year-old Shelley Brown, who walked over from her house a block down the street practically every day, entered the store and headed down the candy aisle.

Joe gave her a welcoming smile before turning away and lowering his voice. “Which means what? You’re going to call her?”

“I’m going to have Eve call her—and give her blessing.”

“Eve’s on a cruise. You won’t be able to reach her.”

“I will if I call the boat.”

He grinned, even though she couldn’t see him. “I think the power of being Mrs. Simon O’Neal is going to your head.”

“I can’t say I don’t enjoy the fringe benefits of having a powerful husband.”

“You’re spoiled,” he teased.

“At least I’m good to my big brother. Give me a couple of days.”

* * *

Dylan couldn’t think of anything except Cheyenne. The shop was the busiest it’d ever been—there were always more collisions in the winter, due to the wet roads—but he kept looking at the clock, wishing the time would go faster. He wanted to see her again, even though he wasn’t sure she’d be interested in seeing him. She openly admitted that her heart belonged to Joe, and Dylan could certainly understand why she’d be attracted to him. Although they didn’t socialize, he and Joe referred business to each other quite often, worked on a lot of the same cars. Joe or one of his mechanics did the engine work; Dylan or one of his brothers did the bodywork. Joe seemed like a decent guy, a respectable candidate.

“What’s wrong with you today, man?” Aaron’s paint mask was hanging around his neck as he came into the office from the warehouse section in back.

Dylan glanced up from his computer. He was pricing parts so he could prepare bids for the three vehicles that’d been towed into his front lot this morning. Or at least he was pricing when he could focus. For the past few seconds, he’d just been staring at the screen. “What do you mean?”

“I stood right there in the doorway, talking to you.”

Dylan hadn’t heard a thing. He’d been too preoccupied. “I’m tired,” he said by way of excuse.

“You went to bed before we did.”

But his brothers had probably gotten more sleep. “Tossed and turned.” Among other things, he added silently and covered a yawn. “What do you need?”

“We’ve got a problem with the paint on Hal’s Suburban.”

“What kind of problem?”

“It’s grainy. Don’t know what’s going on.”

“The surface must not have been clean and smooth to begin with.”

“Mack did the prep work. And he’s the best collision-repair technician we’ve got. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“He’s good.”

“He’s also your pet, which hardly makes you an objective judge. But in this case, you’re right. The grainy paint isn’t his fault.”

Dylan heard the jab in those words. Aaron had long been jealous of Mack. But Dylan didn’t want to get into it. They’d already had an argument this morning over a job Aaron had to redo because it didn’t meet Dylan’s standards. “If it’s not the prep work, there must be dust in the paint booth. Which one are you in today?”

“The big one, but I used it yesterday, too, with perfect results.”

“So did you check the sprayer?”

“Everyone knows better than to put chemicals in the sprayer. I think we just got a bad batch of paint.”

Dylan pressed his fingers to his temples. This was the last thing they needed when they were so backed up. “Fine. I’ll call the supplier.”

“You should call Hal, too. He won’t be happy to hear we’ve got a problem. He needs his Suburban.”

Dylan already knew they were under pressure, trying to get everyone’s car fixed before Christmas. “That reminds me…how are we coming on Murphy’s Cadillac? We’ll have to discount the price if we don’t get it done on time, and we’re not making much to begin with.” That was Dylan’s fault. After the number of years he’d been running Amos Auto Body, he rarely underbid a job. But he’d gotten some bad information on the parts needed to fix the Caddie, and it was his policy not to go back on the customer.

“Rod’s dealing with Murphy’s car. You’ll have to check with him.” He dropped some change in the soda machine, took a Pepsi and walked out.

Once he was gone, Dylan crossed the lobby and stood by the door his brother had just used. He could see Aaron through the small window, talking to Grady, who was at the sanding station. Aaron wasn’t looking good these days. The weight seemed to be falling off him. He was staying up all night and coming to work stoned, which was why, Dylan figured, he’d screwed up that other job.

Dylan had already threatened Carl Inera, the guy he suspected of supplying Aaron. Carl was so scared of Dylan he jumped every time Dylan saw him. Carl also swore up and down that he hadn’t sold Aaron so much as a ten-dollar bag of pot in months.

But Aaron had to be getting his dope from somewhere.

Dylan feared it was Presley.

The phone pealed, and he caught it on the fourth ring. “Amos Auto Body.”

“Dylan? This is Joe, over at the Gas-N-Go.”

Dylan stiffened, even though he’d never had that kind of reaction to Joe before. “What’s up?”

“We’ve finished replacing the wiring harness on Beverly Hansen’s BMW. How should we get it back to you? Do you want me to have it towed over, or did you want to pick it up on the flatbed?”

“I’ll send Rod with the flatbed,” he said.

“Perfect. I appreciate the business.”

Dylan wanted to ask him if he was seeing anyone. He couldn’t help hoping that a girlfriend would make Cheyenne forget about Joe. But they weren’t good enough friends for such a personal question. And he knew, even if Joe was dating someone else, it might not make a difference. Cheyenne had it in her mind that Joe was the one she wanted, and she wasn’t about to consider other options. Dylan couldn’t see her ever giving him a shot. He and Joe were too different. “I’ll get you paid.”