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“Knock yourself out. Just don’t throw away the red binder. That’s got the passwords to everything.”
She snorts, then goes to work, sorting stacks into categories. In ten minutes, the place already looks half civilized. I stand in the doorway, arms folded, and watch her. While she works, I give her the rundown. “We run forty, sometimes fifty cars a week through here. Jax handles intake, you’ll handle the phones and scheduling. Payroll’s every other Friday. Parts come from three suppliers—two local, one online, but the online guy’s a dick and needs threatening every so often.”
She writes it all down, never missing a beat. “Anything else?”
I pause, then say, “If you ever need backup—angry customer, weird delivery guy—just yell. No one will fuck with you.”
“I can take care of myself.” She barely looks up from the papers she’s sorting.
“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” Benny comes over and asks for help. “I’ll be in the shop if you need anything,” I tell Eden as I head out to the shop.
The morning flies. I check on her every now and then. Each time, I get to watch her making a huge dent in the chaos.
Diesel walks up to me around ten. “She’s better than the last three combined,” he whispers.
“I know,” I say, but I can’t hide the pride in my voice.
“Don’t fuck it up with her,” he growls and walks away.
By lunchtime, she’s sorted two boxes of paperwork and started digitizing the old files. The rest of the team takes off for the taco truck down the street, but I stick around to check on her.
She sits back in the chair and stares at me. “You gonna hover over me all day?”
I lean in close, just to see her cheeks go pink. “Probably.”
She shakes her head, but I see the smile. “Thanks for the warning,” she says.
I watch her systematize chaos. Every half hour, the piles of papers shrink, and the digital spreadsheet grows. She prints out a new calendar, tapes it to the wall, and color-codes the appointments with a set of highlighters she found in the bottom drawer.
She’s relentless. By dinner, the place is unrecognizable. The guys drift in and out, dropping paperwork on her desk and expecting it to disappear. She never complains, never asks for help, just gets it done.
But what really gets me is the way she handles the little things. When the parts runner arrives late and looks ready to bolt, she corners him with a stare that could freeze lava, takes the shipment, and makes him sign the receipt. When Tristian comes in with a personal problem—his kid’s sick, and he needs to leave early—Eden just listens, nods, and quietly tells him, “We’ll cover you, don’t worry.” The gratitude on Tristian’s face is real, and I realize I’ve never seen this place running this smoothly.
Diesel comes into my office around two, leans on my desk, and folds his arms. “You know you’re being weird, right?”
I look up from the carburetor rebuild I’m pretending to work on. “Define weird.”
“Hovering. Circling. You’ve checked on her every ten minutes all day.” He shrugs. “Not judging, just observing.”
I consider lying, but it’d be pointless. “She’s mine.”
He shakes his head. “And everyone already knows it.”
“Good,” I say, but my voice is low.
“Pussy-whipped looks like shit on you.” I flip him off as I head out to check on my girl.
The day grinds on, hot and loud. I catch myself staring at her through the office window. Watching the way she leans in when she’s on the phone, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the little huff she makes every time someone drops more work on her desk.
The urge to go in there and just grab her, tell her she’s mine, drag her upstairs, and show her what she does to me is almost unbearable. But I hold back, because I know she needs time.
When closing time hits, she’s still at the desk, balancing receipts. I finally break and go in.
“You don’t have to stay late,” I say. “Shop closes at four.”
I walk over and put my hand over hers. It’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either. Just a way to anchor us both. “You did good,” I tell her.
She nods, looking down at our hands like she’s memorizing the way they fit together.
