Нора Робертс - Courting Catherine

Trenton St. James III was in a foul mood. He was the kind of man who expected doors to open when he knocked, phones to be answered when he dialed. What he did not expect, and hated to tolerate, was having his car break down on a narrow two-lane road ten miles from his destination. At least the car phone had allowed him to track down the closest mechanic. He hadn’t been overly thrilled about riding into Bar Harbor in the cab of the tow truck while strident rock had bellowed from the speakers and his rescuer had sung along, off-key, in between bites of an enormous ham sandwich.
“Hank, you just call me Hank, ayah,” the driver had told him then took a long pull from a bottle of soda. “CC.’ll fix you up all right and tight. Best damn mechanic in Maine, you ask anybody.”