A single window offered a view of the inside of the garage, and I propped my shoulder on the wall, crossed my arms, and did what I did best.
Callie stood in the middle of the garage holding a wrench nearly the length of her forearm.
It dangled beside her leg, the scars on her hands standing out when she rotated her wrist into the light.
Dylan and one of the prospects stood a couple feet away.
Dylan laughed at something, his gaze shooting to Callie as though prompting her to join in.
The other guy performed some kind of song and dance routine that ended with him grabbing the bench beside Callie to keep from falling on his ass.
She froze for a full heartbeat, then took a quick step back and to the side, the wrench moving up and forward in a protective gesture that lit my gut on fire.
Who the hell had bothered her enough that protection had become her first instinct?
My fists curled.
I forced them open, forced my fingers to flex, but they curled again, and a low vibration rumbled from my chest.
Holy fuck. Was Igrowling?
Where had that come from?
I dug my fingers into my arms to keep them from tightening into fists again.
She was not in any danger, not from Dylan or anyone else here.
I’d make sure of that, but it didn’t mean I should run around with my fists ready to take care of any talking.
Dylan elbowed the guy who’d finally regained his balance and the two of them straightened.
They laughed again, whatever story they told growing wilder based on Dylan’s over exaggerated motions.
I edged the office door open and crossed the room to stand beside the Harley frame locked in the base and ready for a second coat of paint.
Both men stiffened, their voices fading into muted squeaks.
I ignored them, did my best to ignore Callie, and picked up the paint sprayer.
We didn’t do a lot of our own paintwork, but my vested interest over the years had prompted Hawk to bring in some equipment.
I adjusted the nozzle and sprayed a layer of matte black over the rear of the frame.
Metal clinked as Callie lowered the wrench to the work station and wiped her hands on a dirty shop rag.
She shot me a sideways look, the profile of her straight nose and full mouth begging for attention.
I ignored her the best I could, despite wondering about the tiny scar in her left eyebrow.
Dylan and the prospect left through the open bay door, their voices picking up halfway across the yard.
Callie continued shooting me those sideways looks while she worked on a motor sitting in pieces on the bench.
Her brows drew together, her fingers quick and efficient as she turned bolts and fitted pieces together. “You don’t talk much, do you.”
It wasn’t a question, which meant I didn’t have to say a damned thing.
Instead, I sprayed another line of black paint, walking around to the other side of the frame for a better look. “You prefer chatter?”
