Settling behind the wheel with the window down, taking in the cool night air against my skin, there’s a heat sitting low in my chest that I can’t shake. Something new and almost demanding.
I thought this assignment was going to be boring and a complete waste of time, but I was wrong. It’s not even close.
A streak of anticipation rips through me while I pull into traffic and tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
If I do this right, Katya Balakin won’t see me coming, and she’ll be the key to everything.
Chapter 4 - Katya
The smell of lacquer and motor oil lingers in the shop, clinging to my clothes and skin as usual. Maybe some people would find the persistent smell annoying, given how it takes many washes to get out, but I don’t mind it. It’s comforting and serves as a reminder of everything I’ve built alongside Roland.
Crouching next to an old Harley, I do my best to smooth out a stubborn ridge of primer on its side panel when the bell above the front door jingles. I pause before turning down the radio, waiting to hear a conversation break out from inside the small showroom.
When I hear nothing, I stand and reach for the rag in my back pocket.
“Roland?” I call out, not yet looking up.
“Not Roland,” a smooth, unfamiliar masculine voice answers instead.
I freeze on instinct, then take a breath before turning around and wiping my hands down. The man standing in the doorway leading to the shop certainly isn’t Roland.
My brows furrow immediately as the recognition sets in.
It’s him.
The guy from the meetup the other night.
He has the same leather jacket, the same relaxed posture as if nothing could touch him. His dark hair looks put into place more intentionally this time, and his eyes are much sharper. Too sharp for a random walk-in.
Even seeing him after the fact seems too strange to be a complete coincidence.
“You,” I say flatly, not backing the word with any personal feelings.
His lips pull into a faint grin as if I’ve already committed myself to whatever game he’s playing. “So you remember me. I suppose that’s a good start.”
“I remember a guy who looked out of place the other night. I’m not sure if that counts as memorable,” I murmur, tossing the rag onto the workbench.
“Maybe I’m just hard to forget then.”
It takes every bit of self-restraint I have to not roll my eyes, but I feel a subtle stammer in my chest all the same. He moves a bit closer, keeping his stride slow and unhurried, and his gaze flickers around the garage.
“You do all of this yourself?” He asks, gesturing with his head to the half-assembled work behind me.
“The detailing, yes.”
Something genuine moves through his eyes then. “Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I murmur noncommittally, “Now do you need anything, or are you just here to dish out compliments?”
He shrugs. “Both.”
I cock a brow at him, unable to find a suitable reply.
“I saw your work on the Ducati the other night,” he continues, speaking so casually about it as if we exchanged more than a glance during the meet. “The lines were clean, the finish was perfect. Not bad for someone making their way fixing up paint jobs.”
“Not bad?” I echo, sensing something else in his words, almost like he’s attempting to pry. “And I assume that’s supposed to be high praise?”
He chuckles to himself at that. The sound is low and warm, and would probably soften most people.
