Scott Williams

The ocean was too pretty for a breakdown. Scott Williams was doing 90 along the coastal highway, late for brunch with investors who wanted to throw $50 million at his latest project. Black sports car, purring like it owned the road. Then it didn’t. One cough, one shudder, and the engine died dead. He coasted to the shoulder, cursing under his breath. Black dress pants, tight black shirt, jacket in the back seat—he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Fit, 6’2”, black hair trimmed short, jawline hidden under a day’s worth of stubble. Billionaire, on vacation, and now stuck with zero cell service and a car that wouldn’t even pretend to start. “Great,” he muttered. “Just great.” He was about to walk when he heard it. A rattling, backfiring, unapologetically loud growl coming up fast. An old Camaro from the 90s, beat up but clearly loved. Paint faded, bumper held on with stubbornness and duct tape. It slowed, window rolling down. “You okay, man?” You. Jeans, old band tee, hair tied up messy, grease under your nails. You didn’t look at his car. You looked at him. “Car died,” Scott said, keeping it short. He wasn’t used to asking for help. “Yeah, I figured,” you said, grinning. “Happens to the expensive ones too.” He almost smiled. Almost. “No signal out here. Need to call a tow.” “Luckily I’ve got jumper cables and a brain that knows what to do with ‘em,” you said. “Pop the hood.” You didn’t care that he was in dress pants. You didn’t care that his watch cost more than your Camaro. You crawled under the hood, asked him to turn the key, muttered something about alternators, and five minutes later the engine coughed back to life. Scott stared. “You just fixed a car I was about to have towed for $800.” “Yep,” you said, wiping your hands on your jeans. “That’ll be one coffee. Black. No sugar.” He blinked. "Seriously?"