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CHAPTER SIX

EDEN

The only way to survive is to get control of the chaos. It’s my unofficial motto by the third day at the Boneyard Garage, and it turns out I’m damn good at it.

Plus, all the hard work has given me something else to concentrate on besides how Bones makes me feel.

By Wednesday, the office no longer looks like a pipe bomb made of paper went off in it. The “system” has started to bend to my will. There are color-coded folders in the rack by my elbow, each one a different shade of neon. Blue folders hold customer information. Red means vendors. Yellow contains internal documents. Green houses all the weird shit I haven’t figured out yet. My laptop hums, the ancient hard drive churning through old work orders as I scan and upload every page to a cloud drive I set up from scratch. No more lost invoices. No more frantic dumpster-diving for a customer’s repair history.

I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving. And I freaking love this job.

After a morning spent triaging a delivery disaster—our supplier shipped us parts intended for the Porsche Dealership across town—I lean back in the creaky desk chair and survey my kingdom. The office hums with order. My color-coded system glows under the ugly fluorescent lights, and the little potted plant I salvaged from my last apartment has a real shot at making it.

That’s when I spot Bones through the glass, out in the garage bay. He’s got the hood up on an ancient Cadillac, hands deep in the guts of the engine, talking in low tones to a customer who was already old when he drove the thing off the lot brand new. The man is clearly stressed, wringing his hat in his hands like it’s the neck of a chicken. Bones listens, arms folded over his chest, and I can practically see the tension rolling off the old guy in waves.

Then Bones does something that doesn’t fit the script. He leans down, wipes his hands on a shop rag tucked in his back pocket, and gives the man a soft clap on the shoulder that seems to transfer some invisible strength between them. Reassuring. Gentle. Not what you’d expect from a six-foot-three, tattooed biker with a voice that rumbles like an earthquake.

They talk for another minute, Bones pointing out something under the hood and then explaining it with a patience I didn’t know he had. The old guy laughs, tension bleeding out of him, and it’s obvious that whatever was about to be a disaster is now just another fixable problem.

My eyes drift to watch Bones’s strong hands moving with surgical precision over the engine block. For a second, I’m lost, watching the way his whole crew subconsciously orbits him. When he speaks, they listen. When he moves, they move. Even Jax, who could bench press a truck, looks to him for approval.

And when Bones glances up and catches me staring, he winks at me, causing my pulse to jolt so hard I nearly knock my coffee off the desk.

He holds my gaze for half a second, just enough to let that slow, dangerous half-smile curl up at the corner of his mouth. I jerk my head down, cheeks on fire, and pretend to be fascinated by the screen on my laptop. Christ, Eden. Get a grip.

I bury myself in work, but the image lingers. Those hands moving with precision over metal. That smile catching the edge of his mouth. Every time I close my eyes, I see him there, watching me watch him. Worse, every time I drift off at night, he’s there in my dreams, walking into my office and shutting the door behind him. Some nights, he doesn’t bother with the door.

So much for taking things slow. My heart, soul, and body already belong to him.

I make it through the day by treating every job as a logic puzzle. There are new parts to order, vendors to wrangle, mechanics to placate, and an ongoing arms race with Chris over the office label maker. I win the afternoon round by hiding it in my bottom drawer.

The next time I look up, Diesel’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed like he’s built out of concrete and bad decisions. He doesn’t come in. He just leans against the frame, jaw locked, tattoos on full display. The man is basically a walking “Do Not Fuck With Me” sign, and his eyes flick over my folders like he’s scanning for explosives.

“Need something?” I ask, keeping my voice perfectly bland. I have no interest in playing mind games with this guy, even if he looks like he could bench-press a dump truck.

He stares at my labeling system for a full ten seconds before he finally speaks, voice gravel-rough. “Bones wants the Webber invoices organized for Friday. You finish that yet?”

“Done. Top left.” I point to the blue folder and try not to flinch when he comes closer, looming over my desk like a security breach in human form.

Diesel grabs the folder, scans the tabs, and grunts. Not a thank you, not a nod, just that guttural sound. Then he spins and walks away, boots thundering on the tile. No “nice job,” no banter, not even the smallest hint of warmth.

I stare after him, half-amused, half-annoyed.

The day is almost over when the side door slams, rattling the whole office. Bones walks in, dirt-smudged and sweat-slick, but as controlled as ever. He props himself against the frame of my door, arms crossed, blocking out the rest of the world.

“Good work today,” he says, and I feel it everywhere.

“Thank you, boss,” I answer, but I can’t look him in the eye. Not after last night, not after the way he kissed me and left me reeling.

Bones lingers a second longer, then lets the silence spool out until it’s almost too much. He finally walks over to my desk and leans over to give me a soft kiss on my lips. The kiss turns heated fast.

His hand tangles in my hair, and just like that, I’m gone. I don’t try to pretend I’m immune. I melt, full body, into the taste of him, the slow slide of his tongue, the rough scrape of stubble against my chin. My brain liquefies on contact, turning all my so-called logic into Jello.

For a split second, it’s just us. There’s only Bones’ mouth and the way he cages me in at my desk, nothing but tension and full-body heat between us.

Holy hell. My fingers clutch at his shirt, holding on while he deepens the kiss, all possessive and greedy like he’s been starving for me. His hands are as big and warm as I remember, palms bracketing my jaw like he owns it. It should be infuriating that he acts like I belong to him, but all it does is turn every cell in my body to absolute goo.

I can feel him everywhere. He manages to short out every one of my neurons as he kisses me like he’s marking territory, slow and deep and without an ounce of hesitation.