"You look like shit," Marcus observes as he clocks in. "Late night?"
I grunt, focusing on the valve I'm cleaning. "Early morning."
"Right." He smirks, clearly not buying it. "Nothing to do with Old Man Joe's granddaughter?"
My head snaps up. "What about her?"
"Town's talking. Saw you two at Paolo's last night. Candlelit dinner? Very romantic."
"It was just dinner," I growl, though the memory of her fingers linked with mine feels anything but casual.
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." Marcus's grin widens. "She coming in today?"
"Don't you have work to do?" I point to the Jeep in bay two. "Oil change and tire rotation. Now."
He gives a mock salute but thankfully moves off to do actual work instead of interrogating me about Sandra. The last thing I need is everyone in town gossiping about us before there's even an "us" to gossip about.
Is there an us? The question has been circling my mind since I walked away from her last night, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from turning back and finishing what we started. She's a customer. Temporary in town. And I don't do temporary. Not anymore.
The bell over the front door jingles, and my pulse jumps. I wipe my hands on a rag, glancing up to see Micah Kane instead of Sandra.
"Torres," he greets, striding in like he owns the place. All the Kane brothers have that confident walk, like they've never doubted themselves for a single moment of their lives.
"Kane," I nod. "What can I do for you?"
"Need your expertise for the Toronto club. Thinking about a vintage motorcycle display in the entrance lobby. Something to catch the eye."
I raise an eyebrow. "And you want me to what? Source the bikes?"
"Source them, restore them, display them however you think best." He shrugs like he's not asking for weeks of work. "Roman says you're the best. Said you'd know exactly what would make the right impression."
"I'm backed up for at least a month," I tell him, gesturing to the parts spread across my workbench. "Big restoration project."
"The Mustang?" Micah nods toward the cherry red classic sitting in bay one. "Roman mentioned that too. Said it belongs to Old Man Joe's granddaughter."
Of course Roman mentioned it. Nothing stays private in this town for long.
"Yeah," I say curtly, hoping to shut down that line of conversation.
Micah studies me for a moment, too perceptive for comfort. "This doesn't have to be immediate. We're looking at a spring opening for the Toronto location. Just wanted to get you thinking about it."
"I'll consider it," I concede. "Can't promise anything."
"Fair enough." He hands me a business card with Club Crimson's sleek logo. "Call me when you've got some ideas. Budget's flexible for the right concept."
I pocket the card, knowing this could be a lucrative gig. The Kane brothers pay well and don't micromanage. Still, I'm not sure I want to take on anything that might delay Sandra's car.
The thought brings me up short. Since when do I prioritize one customer's project over a potentially major contract? Since Sandra Hemmings walked into my garage with her sunshine smile and stubborn determination, that's when.
Micah leaves with a casual wave, and I turn back to the disassembled engine parts, trying to refocus. But my concentration is shot, my mind circling back to Sandra. To the way her eyes lit up when she understood how the carburetor worked. To how her hand felt in mine as we walked through town.
To the way her lips parted just before that damn car horn interrupted us.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting down the valve I've been cleaning for the past five minutes. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager with a crush rather than a grown man who knows better than to get involved with a customer.
The bell jingles again, and this time it is Sandra. My heart does that stupid jump thing again, like it's trying to escape my chest.
She's wearing jeans and a green sweater that brings out the warm undertones in her brown skin. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils framing her face. She looks soft and approachable in a way most people in my life aren't.
