His Uptown Girl. Gail Sattler

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      “Are you only helping me because you feel sorry for me?”

      Bob gazed into Georgette’s blue eyes. Of course he felt badly about the way her father had rejected her, because she wanted to build a life of her own. Actually, he felt proud of her, too.

      And yet, he didn’t feel at peace with what was happening between them.

      Until now, Georgette hadn’t had to work. She could have lived a life of leisure, and it wouldn’t have been wrong.

      But now, all that was gone.

      That a working-class guy like him could be her employer was one of life’s cruel jokes. For now, having to work and save money to get what she wanted, and even the necessities of daily life, was a novelty. Very soon, that thrill would wear off….

      Falling in love with someone from the other side of the tracks only worked in romance novels and fairy tales.

      GAIL SATTLER

      lives in Vancouver, British Columbia (where you don’t have to shovel rain), with her husband of twenty-six years, three sons, two dogs, five lizards, one toad and a Degu named Bess. Gail loves to read stories with a happy ending, which is why she writes them. Visit Gail’s Web site at www.gailsattler.com.

      His Uptown Girl

      Gail Sattler

      He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.

      —Isaiah 40:29

      Dedicated to my husband, Tim.

       Just because I love you.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Letter to Reader

      Chapter One

      The electronic tone of the door chime echoed through the shop.

      Bob Delanio laid his wrench down on the tool caddy, wiped his hands on his coveralls, then walked into the reception area of his auto-repair shop.

      “Need some help?” he asked his newest customer, trying not to sound as tired as he felt.

      The phone rang. Both lines lit up at the same time.

      “Oops, ’scuse me,” Bob mumbled as he picked up the receiver. “Bob And Bart’s, can you hold?” He pushed the button and answered the second line. “Bob And Bart’s. Yeah. Hold on.” Bob hit the hold button, walked a few steps, and poked his head around the corner.

      “Bart!” he yelled. “Get line two. It’s Josh McTavish.”

      Bob nodded at the man still waiting at the counter. The chime sounded again. Just as Bob picked up the phone to talk to the first caller, a man who a week ago had ignored Bob’s warning that he needed a new head gasket stomped in. Bob glanced through the door to see a tow truck outside, the driver waiting to be told what bay to back the man’s car into.

      Bob gritted his teeth. It appeared he was going to spend yet another Friday night working until midnight.

      He handled the latest influx, then did his best to juggle his time between the door, the phone, and actually getting some work done.

      At seven o’clock, an hour past their posted closing, Bart finally had the time to flip the switch on the sign on the door to Closed. Despite that positive turn, neither of them would be leaving just yet.

      “This is nuts,” Bart grumbled as he dropped some change into the pop machine for a cold drink. “We can’t keep this up.”

      Falling backwards onto the worn couch, Bob stretched out his aching feet. “I know. It’s great that business is picking up, but I’m exhausted.” He extended one arm toward the unfinished work orders lined up on the board. “No matter what time we get out of here, we’ll have to be back at five in the morning.”

      “My wife isn’t very pleased about these long hours. At least you’re still single,” Bart retorted.

      “Maybe this is why I’m still single.”

      Bart turned to look outside at the row of cars they had promised their customers they could pick up sometime within the next twenty-four hours. “We have to hire some help.”

      The growing pile of invoices and purchase orders on the counter, spurred Bob’s reply. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

      Bart turned and walked behind the counter. He grabbed a blank piece of paper and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “The newspaper charges by the word, don’t they? What should I say? Wanted. Light-duty mechanic?”

      Without leaving the couch, Bob scanned the boxes of orders, requisitions, receipts and charge bills to be submitted, as well as deposit slips from the bank. “We’re busy, but we’re not busy enough to add another full-time mechanic. If we hire a bookkeeper, then that frees us up to get more done in the shop.”

      Bart scratched his head, pen in hand. “But there are decisions a bookkeeper can’t make, stuff one of us would have to decide. Besides, we don’t have enough paperwork to keep someone busy full-time. When all this stuff is caught up, we can’t afford to pay someone just to sit here and answer the phone.”

      “We’re nearly a week behind even on the small jobs,” Bob said, gesturing at the work orders piled under pushpins on their work board. “I’ve got an overhaul that’s been waiting three days. I guess you’re right. We need a mechanic.”

      Bart stuck his hand in the closest box and lifted out a handful of papers. “It’s almost our fiscal year-end, time for our corporate taxes. Your friend Adrian always needs everything balanced, reconciled and printed out so he can file for us. You’re right. We need a bookkeeper.”

      The two men stared at each other in silence.

      “We need both,” Bob mumbled, “But it would be too hard to hire two part-timers. I don’t want to invest all our time and money to train someone, then have them quit for a better job elsewhere that can give them more hours when they get enough experience. Maybe we should forget about it.”

      Bart shook his head. “The baby is three weeks old. I never see her except when she’s up in the middle of the night crying. And that’s when I should be sleeping, too. I can’t keep this up.”

      Bob felt his whole body sag. Neither of them could continue working eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Lately, the only time Bob wasn’t working was when he took off a few hours Wednesday evening to practice the songs he would be playing on Sunday with his church’s worship team. Up until recently, he refused to work Sundays, but they were so far behind, he’d started to work a few hours on Sunday, too.

      He didn’t know when control had first eluded them, but they’d reached their breaking point. Soon they were going to start making mistakes, which, where cars and people were concerned, could not happen.

      It