Chapter 4
4
DEAN
I was elbow deep in the guts of a stubborn engine when I heard the door to my shop creak open. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Portia Watson. Right on time.
Part of me thought she would back out. Then again, she did bid twenty grand for the chance to hang out with me for a couple of hours.
Technically, that wasn’t true. Both of us knew damn well she didn’t bid on me. But when I considered my options, she seemed like the lesser of the twenty other evils trying to win that date with me. I could handle Portia Watson.
I kept my focus on the engine in front of me, my hands moving methodically as I tightened a bolt. I didn’t say a word as her footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, the sharp click of her heels sounding out of place in the grime and grit of my shop. We didn’t get a lot of heels in here. She stopped a few feet away. I could feel her eyes on me, waiting for me to acknowledge her. I didn’t. Not right away. She could sweat a little.
“Dean,” she said finally.
I grunted in response.
“We need to talk. Can you do that? Or is it all grunting and growling?”
I wiped my hands on a rag and finally looked up, narrowing my eyes at her. She was standing with her hands on her hips, already annoyed, wearing a dress that looked like it belonged at some fancy brunch, not in a motorcycle shop. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and her green eyes were filled with fire, like she was ready for a fight. Good. I wasn’t in the mood to make this easy for her.
I needed a little spice in my life. Portia seemed like she was prepared to deliver. Little Miss Hot Stuff thought she was going to stroll in here in her four-inch heels that made her legs look six-feet long and make demands?
Miss Hot Stuff was about to learn a lesson. No one ordered me around. No one made demands of me.
“You want to talk? Then talk.” I leaned back against the workbench and crossed my arms over my chest. “But make it quick. I’ve got work to do.”
“You told me to be here at six,” she said, looking offended. Then she took a deep breath, clearly trying to compose herself. “Look, I didn’t mean to bid on you last night. It was a mistake. I can’t afford to pay that bill. The coordinators won’t let me out of the deal. So I’m here to figure out a solution. I don’t want a date with you. No offense. I just need to fix this.”
I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Fix it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m not here to go on some date with you. I just want to figure out how to make this right.”
I smirked, shaking my head. “Too late for that, sweetheart. I already covered the bill.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked genuinely shocked. “You what?”
“I covered the bill,” I repeated, my tone flat. “It’s done. So now, I’m going to get my money’s worth out of you .”
She stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to find the right words. “You—you can’t just?—”
“I can,” I interrupted, cutting her off. “And I did. So unless you’ve got the twenty thousand lying around, settle in, Princess.”
She glared at me, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, life’s ridiculous,” I shot back, turning back to the engine. “Now, if you’re done complaining, I’ve got work to do.”
I could feel her standing there, seething, but I didn’t care. She’d bid on me, whether she meant to or not, and now she was going to deal with the consequences. I didn’t need her money—hell, the bid amount was nothing to me. Plus, I knew her story. She was back here because she was broke.
I wasn’t about to let the charity lose out because of a silly misunderstanding. The less fortunate got their money and a little extra. No harm, no foul. Not really. Now I wanted to see how she reacted. Would she stick around or would she leave the moment she understood I wasn’t going to stop her?
But Portia, stubborn to a fault, didn’t leave. Instead, she grabbed a wrench off the workbench and held it up. I glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you going to hit me with that?” I asked, my tone dry.
“We’ll see,” she said. “But for now, I want to help. You said you were going to get your money’s worth out of me, right? So let’s get to work, boss.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. She had to be bluffing. I could see right through her. But I had to admit, her determination was kind of cute.
“You think I want to get my money out of you by you working in my shop?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to work it off on my back.”
“Damn, Portia, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“I have no idea what kind of man you are, and I don’t care,” she said. “So, am I helping or what?”
“Fine,” I said, shrugging. “But try not to break anything.”
I was absolutely certain she had never stepped foot in a shop. I doubted she knew a wrench from a ratchet and she was still wearing those fuck-me heels. The wrench dangled awkwardly from her hand, like she was holding a dead fish.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I tightened a bolt on the engine. She glanced at the bike, then at the tools scattered across the workbench, then back at the bike again. She looked completely lost.
“So,” she said finally, her irritation thinly veiled. “What do you need me to do?”
I straightened up and wiped my hands on a rag, trying not to smirk. “You ever worked on an engine before?”
She hesitated. “No,” she admitted, lifting her chin like she was daring me to challenge her. “But I’m a quick learner. And I’m not just going to stand here while you work.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Right. Well, start by handing me that.” I pointed to a socket wrench on the bench. ”And try not to break a nail.”
She put down the first wrench and grabbed the right one, but her grip was all wrong. The tool slipped out of her hand and clattered onto the concrete floor with a loud metallic clang. She winced and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “cocksucker,” but I was sure she was too much of a lady to say something like that.
Twenty minutes in a mechanic shop and she’s already cursing like a sailor on shore leave. Maybe she’s not as bad as I thought.
Portia bent down to pick up the wayward wrench, her dress riding up just enough to catch my attention. None of my other workers, when they were around, looked a fraction as good as she did. It was a struggle to keep myself from staring.
Not that I needed to keep checking her out. Those curves were already seared into my mind. She might be annoying but her body was a work of art.
“Here’s your dumb wrench,” she said, thrusting it at me. “Now what?”
“Thanks,” I said dryly, taking it from her. “Now stand back. This part requires precision. One wrong move, and you’ll be buying me a new engine.”
That wasn’t actually true, but I wanted her to know this was serious.
She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed. “Fine. But don’t expect me to just stand back and let you do all the work. If I’m going to be here, I’m going to actually contribute.”
I glanced at her, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Contribute, huh? Alright, sweetheart. Hand me the torque wrench—the one with the red handle.”
She hesitated, her eyes scanning the tools on the bench before she tentatively picked up the right one. She handed it to me, her movements careful, like she was afraid the thing might bite her hand off. “How many different wrenches do you need?”
“As many as it takes,” I said. “These are precision machines. They need precision tools.”
“Do you have an apron or something?”
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “An apron?”
“Yeah. I mean, do you just… get your clothes dirty?”
I wanted to laugh. I had never heard anything so ridiculous. “You’re worried about your clothes getting dirty… in a motorcycle shop?”
She frowned, clearly not appreciating my tone. “Well, yeah. These aren’t exactly throwaway outfits.” She gestured down at her perfectly pressed dress and those ridiculous heels. “And, for the record, I didn’t exactly plan on spending my evening in this grease pit. You implied this would be our date . Let me tell you, if this is your idea of a date, I think I know why you’re single.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “I don’t see a ring on your finger either, Ms. Judgmental. So maybe don’t go throwing stones.”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying, a little warning would have been nice. I would have worn jeans, or at least a junkier dress.”
“Fine, if you’re worried about ruining your pretty little dress, there’s a closet over there with some coveralls. They’re probably too big for you, but they’ll keep the grease off, Princess.”
Her eyes narrowed at the nickname, but she didn’t snap back at me for once. Instead, she marched over to the closet with all the determination of someone who refused to be intimidated. She yanked open the door and pulled out a pair of faded black coveralls that were easily three sizes too big for her. She held them up with a look of mild disgust but stepped into them. The crotch hung low enough to accommodate her dress.
She wrestled with the zipper for a solid minute before finally getting it up to her collarbone. The sleeves hung past her hands, and the legs pooled around her feet, making her look like a kid playing dress up.
I could feel her frustration rolling off her in waves, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. Not yet.
“Alright,” she said, walking across the shop in her heels and coveralls.
I never knew that was a fantasy until just then. If the coveralls were just a little smaller, she’d look sexy. Instead, she looked cute in the goofiest way.
“Alright, what?” I asked.
“What’s next?”
“Now, we finish this engine rebuild.”
Portia crouched beside me, her brow furrowed. She turned a wrench over in her hands like it was some kind of alien artifact. “This is for, uh, tightening stuff?”
I exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half exasperation. “Yeah, if by ‘stuff’ you mean bolts. Here.” I took it from her, demonstrating. “You turn it like this. Not that hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, wiping her hand on her coveralls. “You probably came out of the womb knowing how to fix bikes.”
“Pretty sure I learned it the normal way, but thanks.” I smirked, then reached for another tool—only to have her hand dart out and grab the wrong one first.
“That’s not—” I paused, watching her hesitate. She turned the screwdriver over in her fingers before looking at me, expectant.
“Not what?” she challenged.
I sighed. “Not what we need. Here, let me?—”
“Nope,” she cut me off, determination flashing in her eyes. “I got this. Just tell me what to do.”
She didn’t, though. Not even close. She fumbled through the basics, mixing up tools, turning bolts the wrong way, and asking questions that made me seriously wonder if she’d ever been near a motorcycle before today.
But damn if she didn’t keep trying.
I could see the frustration in the tight set of her jaw, the way she huffed under her breath when she messed up. But she didn’t quit. And at some point—somewhere between her cursing under her breath and me explaining, half amused, half serious—I realized she was actually paying attention.
She asked questions, and not just the dumb ones. And instead of brushing them off, I answered, giving her more detail than I normally would. I had no idea if any of it was making sense to her, but I told her anyway.
Every time she leaned in, her perfume mixed with the oil and grease, an oddly distracting contrast. I should’ve hated it. I expected to.
But somehow, I didn’t.
I did hate how defiant she was, though. “Get me that rag, would you?”
She was frowning at a bolt she’d been trying to loosen for several minutes. “You have legs, get it yourself. You told me to get this bolt out. That’s what I’m doing.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” I said finally.
“And you’re a control freak. Guess we’re even.”
I shook my head, turning back to the engine. “This was a giant waste of twenty thousand.”
“Nobody forced your hand,” she shot back. “You could’ve just taken me out to dinner.”
I glanced over at her. “And miss out on all this fun? Not a chance.”
She rolled her eyes, but I could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual defiant glare, but it was enough to make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t hating this as much as she let on.