Priya finally laughed aloud.
When the paperwork was finished, Marcus returned to escort the car to detailing. He carried the signed deal jacket against his chest like something fragile.
“Congratulations,” he told Emily. “They’re cleaning it now, filling the tank, and doing one more tire-pressure check.”
Emily grinned. “It’s actually mine.”
“It is.”
Marcus looked toward Frank. “Thank you for making sure the sale stayed under my name.”
Frank shook his head. “I didn’t give you anything. I stopped someone else from taking something you had earned.”
Marcus looked down.
“That still matters.”
Frank studied him.
“How long have you been selling cars?”
“Seven weeks and three days.”
“You know that exactly?”
“I’ve been counting.”
“Why this business?”
Marcus hesitated. “Honestly?”
“That is usually the useful version.”
“My previous job closed. Warehouse distribution. I needed work fast. My cousin sells at another dealership and said I’m good with people.”
“Are you?”
“I think so.”
“What do you think the job is?”
Marcus glanced toward the showroom floor.
“I thought it was helping somebody find the right car and getting paid if I do it well.”
“And now?”
Marcus smiled faintly. “Now I think it’s also learning how not to get eaten alive by people who know where to stand near the front door.”
Frank laughed.
“You’re learning.”
Marcus became serious again. “Trent’s not always terrible.”
Frank looked at him.
“I’m not defending what he did,” Marcus said quickly. “I just mean he knows the business. He helped me with paperwork my first week. He’s covered deals for people when they had emergencies. But he decides really fast who’s worth his time.”
“That can become a dangerous skill.”
“I know.”
“Especially if people reward him every time he’s right and forget the people he never bothered to test his judgment against.”
Marcus nodded.
Frank looked at the sales board.
“You want to be good at this?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t learn the wrong lesson from today.”
Marcus frowned slightly. “What’s the wrong lesson?”
“That the old man in work boots might secretly be rich.”
Marcus smiled.
“The right lesson is that the old man in work boots does not need to be rich.”
The smile disappeared, replaced by understanding.
“Yes, sir.”
Frank let the “sir” pass this time.
Diane approached from the administrative hallway. “Frank, do you have a few minutes before the car is ready?”
“Depends. Are you going to show me a spreadsheet?”
“I might.”
Emily looked delighted. “He loves spreadsheets.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”