TOO RICH TO BE MINE.

The engine gave a sick, sputtering cough—then died completely.

Catherine Smith stared at the dashboard of her Bentley Continental GT, stunned. As if the car had the nerve to malfunction on this street—where cracked sidewalks met rusted fences and not a single doorman stood in sight.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, pulling out her phone. No signal.

Of course.

Her father had warned her not to drive into “these kinds of neighborhoods.” Her mother would have a panic attack if she knew Catherine had crossed into Brooklyn alone, without a driver, wearing heels worth more than the rent on the corner laundromat.

But Catherine had wanted space. A break. Air.

Now the car that symbolized her freedom sat lifeless in front of a grease-stained auto repair shop called Blakes Auto.

She sighed, pushed open the door, and the moment her Louboutin hit the cracked pavement, she regretted everything.

A bell chimed overhead as she stepped inside the garage. It smelled like oil, rubber, and something burnt—but it was better than being stranded outside.

A tall man stood with his back to her, bent under the hood of a classic Ford. His black T-shirt clung to his back. Muscles flexed as he adjusted something with a wrench.

“Excuse me,” Catherine said, hoping her voice sounded confident—and not completely helpless.

The man turned.

He was young. Late twenties, maybe. His dark hair was tousled, curls brushing his forehead. His jaw was sharp, shadowed with a rough stubble. There was sweat at his temple. Grease on his forearm.

And the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

“You lost?” he asked.

“Is that how you greet all your customers?” she snapped, folding her arms.

He gave a slow, crooked smile. “You don’t look like a customer. You look like someone who made a wrong turn into the wrong neighborhood.”

She lifted her chin. “My car broke down. It’s a Bentley. It just… stopped.”

“Bentleys usually don’t ‘just stop.’” He wiped his hands on a rag, walked past her, and glanced outside. “That your silver coupe?”

“Yes.”

He gave a low whistle. “Nice ride. Looks too clean to be yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Relax, princess,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”

She bristled. “My name is Catherine.”

“Of course it is.” He smirked and walked out to her car.

She followed, trying not to trip in her heels. He popped the hood and leaned in. She caught the faint smell of his cologne—subtle, woodsy, nothing like the overpowering designer scents she was used to.

“So,” she said after a minute, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong with it?”

“Depends. Are you going to yell at me if I tell you it’s your fault?”

She glared.

He chuckled. “Battery’s drained. And your alternator’s throwing off bad voltage. You’ve been ignoring your dashboard warnings for weeks, haven’t you?”

“I don’t read dashboard warnings.”

“Clearly.”

She should’ve been insulted. But somehow, she wasn’t.

“I can fix it,” he said, closing the hood, “but I’ll need to run diagnostics. Give me about an hour.”

She checked her phone again. Still no signal. “There’s nowhere to wait.”

“You can sit in the office. It’s not the Plaza, but it’s clean.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know what the Plaza is?”

He grinned. “I read magazines.”

Something about that grin felt dangerous—but not in a bad way.

He led her to a small breakroom office—dimly lit, with a beat-up couch, a fan in the corner, and a coffee machine that looked older than she was.

He handed her a cold bottle of water. “Here. Try not to melt.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

He turned to leave, but she called out, “Wait. What’s your name?”

He paused.

“Elijah.”

“Elijah…?”

“Just Elijah.”

And then he walked away, back to her car, leaving her sitting there with a water bottle and a strange flutter in her chest.

The office fan whirred lazily, blowing warm air into Catherine’s face as she sat stiffly on the edge of the couch. Dust clung to the windowsills, and someone had scribbled “Don’t touch my snacks” in Sharpie on the mini fridge.

She wasn’t used to places like this. No velvet sofas. No ambient lighting. No champagne flutes brought without asking.

But strangely, she didn’t feel like leaving.

Outside, she could hear the faint clang of Elijah working. Tools clicking. A soft grunt. Then silence, followed by the low hum of the diagnostic machine booting up.

Catherine stood, peeked through the dusty glass door, and watched him for a moment.

He moved with precision—focused, efficient, confident in a way that made her heartbeat slow and then speed up again. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leaned into the hood like the car was whispering secrets.

“You’re staring,” he called without turning.

Catherine flinched and stepped back.

“You’ve got good hearing for a mechanic.”

“I’ve got good instincts,” he said, finally glancing back at her through the open bay. “And instincts say you’re not used to waiting.”

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t mind waiting. When the company’s decent.”

He smirked. “Is that your way of flirting?”

“It’s my way of saying you haven’t offered me anything but water.”

“Would you rather a glass of 2014 Château Margaux?”

She blinked. “You know wine?”

“I know a lot of things people don’t expect me to.”

The words lingered between them, charged.

Catherine stepped forward. “How long have you worked here?”

“A while.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He closed the hood and turned toward her, arms crossed. “Are you always this curious about strangers who fix your car?”

“Only the ones who don’t tell me their last name.”

He smiled—slow, easy, but something behind it stayed guarded. “Let’s keep it simple. You’re Catherine. I’m Elijah. And your car has commitment issues.”

She laughed despite herself. “Fine. What’s the damage?”

“Battery’s dead. Alternator’s hanging on by a thread. I’ll need to keep it overnight.”

Catherine hesitated. “So how do I get home?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Call a car service. Don’t rich girls keep those on standby?”

Her jaw tightened. “You really don’t like people like me, do you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Then why all the assumptions?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just grabbed a rag and started wiping his hands again. Finally, he looked at her.

“People like you usually look at me like I’m invisible.”

Her chest tightened a little. “I didn’t.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “You didn’t.”

The silence stretched—tender and raw, the kind that made her feel like something important had just been said.

Catherine’s phone buzzed. Signal: back.

She glanced at the screen. Ten missed calls. All from her father’s assistant.

Elijah noticed her expression change. “Problem?”

She locked the screen. “No. Just the real world catching up.”

“I see.”

She stepped away from the door. “I’ll call for a ride. Shouldn’t take long.”

“You can wait inside. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s cool.”

She gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

“And hey,” he said, catching her gaze before she turned. “Next time your Bentley acts up, try listening to the warning lights.”

“Next time?” she repeated.

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “You seem like the type who doesn’t learn the first time.”

Her smile widened. “You have no idea.”