Chapter 7 Definitely Not Hiding Something
Raine
I got two contracts for all that effort, but I'll take them, because two is better than zero. It's been a total of twelve hours, give or take, since I got back from the convention. My mind is screaming for more sleep, and my body is aching for work.
No part of me is ever at peace.
The soft ring of the bell over the door echoes into the garage from the lobby.
Reluctantly—because I'm all peopled out—I pull myself away from the metal frame to greet whoever decided to step foot in here.
The polite smile I was ready to plaster on my face vanishes instantly when I see his dirty blonde hair swirling over those piercing blue eyes that always seem too playful.
“No bike this time?” I ask flat out, my eyes dropping to the cups in his hands before they come back to his face.
He lifts one in offering, and I just stare at it like he’s trying to hand me a bag of shit. “I bring coffee instead.” He gives it a little shake, as if caffeine can smooth over whatever boundary he’s pretending not to see.
He’s trying to look casual and failing in a very Jax way, shoulders set like he’s bracing for impact while his smile stays too bright to be natural. The cup steams a little as he wiggles it like a peace treaty.
“What is it?” I ask, still not taking it, not wanting to reward him for just showing up with a drink when I didn’t ask for it.
“Mocha latte.” The words come out careful, like he’s reading my mood and adjusting in real time, and then he barrels ahead before I can react.
“But not sweet-sweet. I gambled. You don’t feel like a caramel drizzle person.
More like a dark chocolate person. If I’m wrong, throw it at me.
Preferably not the face. The face is my income. ”
“That’s more detail than I was expecting.” The mutter slips out as I take the cup before he can launch into a full presentation. It’s warm, smells like cocoa and actual coffee, and I keep my expression flat even as I sip.
It’s good.
Annoyingly.
He notices anyway, tipping his chin like he just won a coin toss at my expense. “So… not a fail?”
“It’s fine.” I keep my voice neutral on purpose, like the word doesn’t mean anything.
“Fine like ‘I’m going to pretend I like it,’ or fine like ‘you got it right and I’m never telling you’?” He leans into the question with that smug little lilt he gets when he thinks he’s cracked a code.
“Do you ever shut up?” I throw it at him without looking, already turning back toward the lift.
He pauses long enough to make a show of thinking, brows knitting like this is a serious philosophical dilemma. “No.”
The snort escapes me before I can stop it, and I use the motion to hide my face as I walk back toward the half-built frame. “You have sixty seconds. Then I’m getting back to work.”
“Sixty seconds is plenty.” He falls into step beside me like he’s earned the right, matching my pace without asking.
He sets his coffee on the bench and lets his gaze roam the shop with the kind of focus that feels unfair on him, like he’s cataloging everything I’ve tried not to let anyone notice: the pegboard, the wall of labeled bins, the taped-up fight flyer by the clock I keep forgetting to take down.
His eyes linger on my hands, the tape across my knuckles, the grease on my wrists, and I pretend I don’t see the way his mouth tightens at it.
“Did you sleep any?” he asks, and for once his voice dips a little, like he’s trying not to sound like he cares.
“Some.” I keep working, wiping metal filings off the swingarm as if the question doesn’t land anywhere.
“Define some.” He shifts his weight against the bench, watching me like he’s waiting for me to slip up and tell the truth.
“Enough to stop seeing double.” I reach for the torque wrench, because tools don’t judge me.
“Great, so a full four hours?” He squints at me like he’s doing math.
“Three.”
His whistle comes out low, impressed and irritated at the same time. “You’re a machine.”
“I’m a person who has too many bills.” The correction is automatic, sharper than I intended, and I don’t bother apologizing for it.
He leans his hip against the workbench, careful for once not to crowd me, and watches my hands move like they’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. He does that thing with his mouth where the dimples show even when he’s not smiling, and I hate that my eyes catch it.
“Convention go okay?” he asks, like he’s trying to sound casual, but his gaze keeps flicking back to my taped knuckles.
“I’m guessing Theo told you. Got two contracts.” I don’t look at him when I say it, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden. “So yeah. Could’ve been worse.”
He nods slowly, the approval settling across his face like he’s genuinely impressed even if he’ll never admit it too sweetly. “Not bad. I figured you’d be too busy scaring off competitors to close deals.”
“I only scare the ones who deserve it.”
“Which is… all of them?”
“Pretty much.”
He lets a smirk spread slow across his face, like he’s pleased with himself for reasons that should be illegal. “I knew it. You probably had them signing just to get you to stop glaring.”
I tighten the bolt a little harder than necessary, letting the wrench take the attitude my mouth refuses to give him. “You’ve got a real talent for backhanded compliments.”
He lifts both hands in mock innocence, brows going up like he’s offended I’d accuse him of such a thing. “Wasn’t a compliment.” The pause he takes after that is deliberate, like he’s choosing the next word just to watch me react. “More like… admiration.”
“That’s worse.” I don’t bother looking up as I speak, but my shoulders give me away anyway.
His grin widens, thinking he’s getting under my skin. “You keep saying that, but I think you secretly like it.”
“I think you like hearing yourself talk.” I glance at him to make sure he knows I mean it.
“Yeah.” He accepts it like it’s a personality trait he’s proud of, leaning his hip into the bench again. “But you listening makes it better.”
I shoot him a look that’s half warning, half annoyed at my own stupid pulse. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to being charming.”
“Close?” He taps his chest like he’s personally offended by the downgrade. “I thought I was there already.”
“Delusional too, apparently.”
I brace the wrench and feel the bolt give just enough.
My brain finally starts to quiet, but Jax doesn’t.
He’s fidgeting with the stir stick on his lid like it’s a toy, then he catches himself and stops, knowing better than to litter in here.
He’s all motion—hands, eyebrows, mouth. A human neon sign.
“So,” he starts, grin already forming, “when do I get my turn?”
I don’t look up from the frame. “Your turn for what?”
He takes a slow sip of his drink, milking the pause, enjoying how much he’s getting under my skin. “A walk.”
I groan. “You heard about that?”
“Theo’s not exactly subtle.” Jax pushes off the counter and drifts closer with that easy swagger he pretends isn’t calculated, eyes bright like he’s already rewriting the story to include himself.
“Guy acted like he’d just seen God. Said you invited him to walk around, talk about work stuff.
” He throws air quotes around it with a grin that dares me to argue.
“So I figured I should put in a request before your schedule fills up. You know, have some coffee and conversation.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip, gaze steady over the lid like he’s counting points. “But you haven’t kicked me out yet, so I’m counting that as progress.”
“You measure success weird.”
“And you measure it wrong.” He fires it back without hesitation, the teasing slipping into something that hits harder. “You think not needing anyone means you’re winning.”
That earns him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “You psychoanalyzing me now?”
“Nah.” His shoulders lift in a shrug that looks careless until you notice he doesn’t look away. “I just listen.”
The room goes quiet for a second. Not awkward. Just… still. He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to give something I’m not used to giving. It makes my chest feel tight.
“Don’t,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the frame even as my grip tightens around the tool.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
He smirks, and I can hear it in his voice before I even glance up. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
“Too late.” His voice drops softer, and for once the flirt doesn’t feel like a joke. “Already working on it.”
Before I can tell him exactly where to shove that confidence, movement flashes through the front window. A black car, tinted windows, the kind that never brings good news. My pulse stutters.
Bash’s men.
The air leaves my lungs in one edged exhale. Jax notices instantly—his smirk faltering, his posture straightening. “Raine?”
I move fast, stepping into his space before he can turn around, fingers curling around his wrist. “Don’t talk,” I whisper.
His whole face shifts, confused, drawing his brows together as his gaze flicks from my grip to my mouth as if he’s trying to figure out what rule he just broke. “What—”
“Not a word,” I hiss, my voice dropping low. The confusion flickers into concern, but he nods, slow and serious for once.
I let him go, already heading for the front. My stomach’s in knots, pulse thudding in my throat, but my voice comes out steady when I call, “Be right there!”
Jax doesn’t move, watching from where I left him. Every trace of his grin is gone, replaced by something more serious.