Part 3:
Everything was perfect. Everything was always perfect in the carefully constructed world of Hart Industries. She took a long drink of her martini and thought about the mechanic. Ethan,” he’d said. The way he’d knelt in the mud without hesitation, the practiced confidence of his hands, the absolute lack of interest in who she was or what she could do for him.
When was the last time someone had looked at her like that, like she was just a person stuck on the side of the road, not a name on a Forbes list or a face in a corporate headsh shot? She couldn’t remember. Miss Hart, Vivien looked up. The Mater D was back, his expression carefully neutral in a way that suggested bad news.
Your companion called. He’s going to be another 30 minutes. He apologizes for the inconvenience. She set down her martini very carefully. Did he? He suggested you order an appetizer. He’s happy to reimburse you. For a moment, Vivien just stared at him. Then she started laughing. Not the polite corporate laugh she’d perfected over years of board meetings and investor dinners, but a real laugh that made the couple at the next table glance over in surprise.
You know what? She stood, grabbing her purse. Tell Marcus not to bother. I have somewhere else to be. The matraee blinked. Of course. Shall I? Uh. But Vivien was already walking toward the exit, heels clicking on the polished floor, still slightly damp from the rain and not caring at all. She handed the valet her ticket and waited under the awning, watching the storm tear through the city with something almost like approval. Her phone buzzed.
Marcus there in 20. Order the oysters. She blocked his number. The jaguar pulled up and Vivien tipped the valet double what the service was worth. She slid into the driver’s seat and the engine started perfectly on the first try. Because a stranger named Ethan had fixed it in the rain without asking for anything in return.
She pulled out of the garage and pointed the car south toward home, toward the empty penthouse with its floor toseeiling windows and its view of absolutely nothing that mattered. Halfway there, she pulled over. The business card was still in her coat pocket, the one Ethan had given her, except he hadn’t given her anything. She’d given him her card, and he’d shoved it away without looking, but he’d said he owned a repair shop in Seattle.
How many could there be? Vivien pulled out her phone and typed mechanic Ethan Cole, Seattle. The results loaded slowly, the storm interfering with the signal. Then a name appeared, Kohl’s Auto Repair, Georgetown District. The reviews were mixed. Five stars from people who praised the honest work and fair prices.
Two stars from people who complained about the unprofessional location and lack of amenities. One review just said, “Ethan saved my car and probably saved my job. We’ll never go anywhere else.” There was a photo, a small, cramped garage with two bays and a tiny office that looked like it was held together with duct tape and hope. And standing in front of it, arms crossed, was the man who’d fixed her car in the rain.
He looked tired in the photo, tired and determined, and nothing like the polished businessmen who orbited her world. Viven saved the address. She didn’t know why, didn’t know what she’d do with it, but sitting in her car while rain hammered the roof, still damp from standing on the side of the road, still holding an umbrella over a stranger who’d helped her without wanting anything in return.
She saved the address. Ethan made it to the restaurant at 10:15. The hostess took one look at him. mud splattered jeans, soaked shirt, hair dripping water onto the polished marble floor, and her professional smile faltered. “I’m meeting someone,” he said quickly. “Reservation under uh” He realized he didn’t know Viven’s last name. “Maybe under Sarah Cole or Viven.
” The hostess’s smile returned colder this time. “I’m sorry, sir. We have a dress code.” Right. Yeah, but I’m late and she’s probably been waiting and I’m afraid I can’t seat you in your current state. She glanced pointedly at his boots, which were leaving small puddles on the floor. Perhaps you’d like to reschedule.
Heat crawled up Ethan’s neck. Not anger exactly, just the familiar exhausting weight of not belonging, of being the wrong kind of person in the wrong kind of place. Can you at least tell her I’m here? Just tell her Ethan is here and I’m sorry I’m late. The hostess picked up the phone with the kind of exaggerated patience usually reserved for children and difficult customers.
What name is the reservation under? I don’t know. Viven. First name Vivien. A pause. We don’t have any reservations under that name. Are you sure? Maybe it’s under a different sir. The hostess set down the phone. We don’t have anyone by that name waiting. and I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you’re not a guest.
” Ethan stood there dripping water, feeling the eyes of well-dressed diners turning toward him with the kind of casual disdain reserved for people who didn’t understand that you needed reservations made 3 months in advance. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out. Screen cracked, case held together with electrical tape, and saw a text from Sarah. She left.
She said, “You never showed.” “What happened?” Shit,” he muttered. The hostess cleared her throat. “Sir, yeah, I’m leaving.” Ethan turned toward the door, boots squatchching, and walked back out into the rain. He sat in his truck for a long time, engine off, staring at the restaurant through the rain streaked windshield.
