A low laugh drags through the speaker. “Pretty is your word. I want someone we trust and already knows the club. Someone who won’t get rattled when Rev starts yelling or Blade drops an engine on his damn foot again and cusses for fifteen minutes straight.”
I snort. “I’ve survived girls’ nights with the old ladies at Perdition. I can survive the guys.”
“That’s what I figured,” he replies, like the decision has already been made in his head.
Warmth creeps into my chest and suddenly I’m more awake than coffee could ever make me. This isn’t some random company offering a gig. These are people I care about and trust. People who’ve already woven themselves into my life.
“So,” I ask slowly, trying not to accidentally sound like I might cry or pass out, “are you offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you a meeting,” he corrects, businesslike. “But if we both like the direction, I want you running numbers, doing the ordering, invoices, and payroll. You’d be the office manager.”
My pulse kicks. Hard. “When do you want to have this meeting?”
“One o’clock today. Come by the shop. Wear whatever. This isn’t Wall Street.”
I glance down at my fuzzy bunny slippers and give my toes a proud wiggle. “Good.” I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” His tone goes steady. “See you later.” Then he hangs up without a dramatic goodbye.
I stare at my phone a second longer, then flop back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling like the world just shifted under me in the best way. I woke up worrying something terrible had happened. Instead, something really good just did.
SEVEN
BLADE
I rollinto the parking lot at Iron Reapers Customs, running on the energy drink I chugged when I woke up. I chew on the toothpick in my mouth as I head inside, mentally preparing for the usual routine. Tank screwing around. Rev throwing parts. Music loud enough to fry brain cells. Normal. What I’m not prepared for is Bri, sitting in the damn office like it’s hers.
I stop dead. It feels like the entire world is misfiring. She’s behind the desk, wearing a fitted black Iron Reapers Customs shirt that clings to her curves. Her messy bun barely contains her hair, little dark strands falling against her neck and shoulders, and she’s typing quickly with a concentrated look. She looks edible. Dangerous. Like she might kill me or kiss me and I genuinely don’t know which one turns me on more.
My pulse jumps into fight mode. Definitely not lust mode. That would be insane. I storm inside, making the door crash louder than it needs to when it hits the wall. “Where the hell is Mason?”
She looks up slowly, unimpressed like I didn’t just have a cardiac event at the sight of her in my territory. “Good morningto you too,” she grumbles under her breath. “Nice to see you’re still as cuddly as a cactus.”
“I’m serious, Bri.” I get closer, lowering my voice because I already hear Tank laughing somewhere in the shop. “What are you doing here? Because there is no fucking way you’re actually working here.”
She stands, hips swaying on purpose, and walks around the desk. Her jeans hug her thick hips in a way that should be illegal before noon. And the boots. Black shit kickers laced up tight like she means business. She rounds the desk and settles on the edge, arms crossing beneath her chest, turning every soft curve into a weapon aimed at me. One boot swings slowly, almost teasing, and my heart damn near forgets how to function. “Really now?” Her brow arches, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You sure about that boyo?”
I hate how much she’s enjoying this. The little smirk. The raised brow. The absolute audacity. But worse than that, I hate how good she looks in our logo. Like she was always meant to be part of this world. And I hate how damn good she smells, like warm sugar and heat and something I can’t name without admitting I’ve noticed her way too many times. It hits me every time she moves, sliding right under my skin until I’m the one coming apart.
I hate all of it so much that I want to drag her right off that desk and kiss her until she forgets her own name. Which means I need to get the hell out of this office before I embarrass myself. I spin around and slam the door behind me harder than necessary. My brothers definitely heard that, because Rev pokes his head out from the parts wall with a grin like he knows exactly how doomed I am.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he calls.
“Shut up,” I snap, and then I immediately regret reacting because Rev’s grin doubles. Great. Fuel for the fire.
I pace in front of the office, trying to shove my emotions into a box and nail it shut. Behind the closed door, I hear Bri moving papers around like she is genuinely settling in. Like this is normal. Like the universe doesn’t care that this is the worst idea since someone let Tank cook at the clubhouse.
The door swings open. Bri pops her head out, eyebrow raised like she’s queen of the sass kingdom. “Mason’s in the garage talking to Tank. If you want to throw your little tantrum his way instead of at me.”
I glare. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.”
She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, gaze crawling over me like she’s checking for lies. “Sure. My bad. You’re just slamming doors and breathing like a dragon because that’s how you normally say hello.”
She’s impossible and sunshine dipped in sarcasm and wrapped in trouble. And now she fucking works here. I swallow hard, trying to drag my sanity back from whatever cliff it just swan-dived off. “We’re not done talking about this.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, smiling like she is absolutely going to ruin my life.
The worst part is she is right. I’m so fucking screwed.
