Nick didn't know a damn thing about fixing up cars right. He knew what he'd learned about hot-wiring them when it had been a quick way to make a buck to feed his kid brother back when and by the time he learned to drive right, the family he'd been wedged into had People for that shit. He could have slid sideways into it, but he liked the bike better until the bike had bitten it. But he knew his chair. Hell, the thing lived inside his dreams now, just outta reach. He knew nobody was putting hands on it, unless he wanted them there.
She smelled like a greasemonkey up-close. Coffee was a thick oily smell over the top of that, Nick watched her assess how loaded the diner wasn't, and take in the staffing. "Yeah," he said in agreement, "There's nobody else. You got me as table-side service and I'm worse with the coffee pot than the rest of them. But I own it, so nobody argues."
The smile reminded him of the woman from the movie theater. Sass, instead of sincere. "No pickles? On a burger?" Eyebrows sketched up.