Monday mornings had developed a rhythm of their own. I woke just before six, showered, brushed my teeth and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and my favorite black Lawson Customs t-shirt and then wandered downstairs with a mug of coffee balanced carefully in one hand.
The apartment above the garage still felt wonderfully quiet before the workday began.
Downstairs was a different story.
Ben was already unlockiung the parts room while humming to himself, Mia sat behind the reception desk sorting invoices into nearly labeled folders and the first customer had pulled into the parking lot before I even switched on the workshop lights.
Business was good.
Sometimes I still had to remind myself that it was real.
Only a few months earlier I’d wondered whether I’d lose the garage Uncle Will
