Chapter 3 Unexpected Guest #2
But because both required complete attention.
Complete commitment.
The same focus I felt while writing a scene was visible every time Jaxon picked up a wrench.
He cared about his work.
That much was obvious.
The realization made me like him even more.
Which was becoming a problem.
I sighed and looked down at my laptop.
The cursor blinked patiently inside my manuscript.
Waiting.
Judging.
Mocking me.
A writer's imagination wasn't supposed to disappear when inspiration appeared in real life.
Unfortunately, mine seemed determined to do exactly that.
For several minutes I stared at the screen.
Nothing happened.
Then a loud laugh echoed through the garage.
I glanced up automatically.
One of the customers had apparently told Jaxon a joke.
The biker shook his head and smiled briefly.
The expression transformed his face.
Every hard edge softened.
The intimidating mechanic vanished for a moment.
The man underneath appeared.
And suddenly my fingers moved.
Words began flowing.
Fast.
Natural.
Effortless.
I opened a new document before inspiration disappeared.
The Rider stood beneath the afternoon sun, grease staining his hands as he rebuilt a machine most people would've abandoned years ago.
He worked with the same patience he used on broken hearts.
The same stubborn determination.
The same quiet strength.
The hero in my manuscript had originally looked different.
Less specific.
More generic.
Now every description seemed to shift toward Jaxon.
The broad shoulders.
The tattoos.
The rough exterior hiding something unexpectedly gentle.
I paused.
Then immediately deleted the last sentence.
Too obvious.
Even for me.
Still, I couldn't deny what was happening.
The man downstairs had somehow worked his way into the story.
Not intentionally.
Not consciously.
But undeniably.
I spent the next hour writing more than I had during the entire retreat.
Scenes appeared one after another.
Conversations.
Arguments.
Quiet moments.
A lonely biker who didn't realize he deserved to be loved.
A softer character who refused to give up on him.
The story practically wrote itself.
Which was both exciting and mildly terrifying.
At some point, a shadow appeared in the office doorway.
I looked up.
Jaxon stood there holding two bottles of water.
My heart immediately performed something dramatic and unnecessary.
He held one bottle toward me.
"You've been staring at that screen for two hours."
I accepted it.
"That's usually how writing works."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I thought writers used paper."
I laughed.
"Some do."
"You got anything done?"
The question surprised me.
Not because he asked.
Because he sounded genuinely interested.
Most people asked out of politeness.
Jaxon sounded curious.
"A few thousand words."
His eyebrows lifted.
"That's good?"
"Very."
A look of approval crossed his face.
Ridiculous.
Why did approval from this man matter?
I barely knew him.
Yet somehow it did.
More than I wanted to admit.
"Congratulations."
I smiled.
"Thank you."
For a brief moment neither of us spoke.
The silence felt comfortable.
Strange.
Most silences made me nervous.
This one didn't.
Eventually Jaxon nodded toward the screen.
"What do you write?"
Panic immediately arrived.
Not full panic.
Just enough.
The manuscript.
Right.
Absolutely not.
No chance.
No way.
The last thing I needed was Jaxon discovering I wrote romance novels.
Specifically romance novels featuring dangerous bikers.
Even more specifically, a romance novel currently becoming suspiciously inspired by him.
That conversation could never happen.
Ever.
"Nothing interesting."
His expression suggested he didn't believe me.
Fair.
I wouldn't believe me either.
Still, he didn't push.
Another point in his favor.
"I'll take your word for it."
Thank God.
Jaxon returned to work.
My pulse eventually settled.
Mostly.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly.
I alternated between writing and observing the garage.
Research, I told myself.
Purely professional.
Writers needed details.
Accurate descriptions.
Authentic atmosphere.
If those details occasionally involved watching a tattooed mechanic work with his sleeves rolled up, that was nobody's business but mine.
Around five o'clock, the garage grew quieter.
Most customers had left.
The setting sun painted warm golden light across the building.
The atmosphere changed.
Slower.
Calmer.
I closed my laptop and stretched.
My neck protested.
Apparently spending hours hunched over a keyboard wasn't ideal for human anatomy.
Good to know.
Movement near the main garage doors caught my attention.
Jaxon stood beside a motorcycle, adjusting something near the engine.
The sunlight hit him directly.
Golden light highlighted the dark ink covering his arms.
The shadows emphasized every line of muscle beneath his shirt.
For a moment, the image looked almost unreal.
Like something from a photograph.
Or a book cover.
The thought made me smile.
Then I immediately froze.
Because I realized I'd been staring.
Again.
At some point, watching Jaxon had become a habit.
A dangerous one.
I should've looked away.
Immediately.
Instead, I continued looking.
The writer inside me wanted to memorize everything.
The details.
The posture.
The expression.
The way he moved.
Jaxon suddenly glanced up.
Our eyes met.
Directly.
Completely.
For one terrible second, neither of us looked away.
My stomach dropped.
Heat rushed through me.
The entire garage seemed to disappear.
The sounds faded.
The distance vanished.
All I saw was him.
Dark eyes.
Steady gaze.
Unwavering attention.
Something shifted.
Small.
Subtle.
Yet impossible to ignore.
The moment stretched.
Longer than it should have.
Long enough to become dangerous.
Long enough for awareness to settle between us.
Then Jaxon raised an eyebrow.
The movement broke the spell instantly.
Embarrassment crashed over me.
I looked away so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
Now he definitely knew I had been staring.
I considered hiding under the desk.
Possibly forever.
Unfortunately, adulthood rarely allowed that option.
A few seconds later, I risked another glance.
Jaxon had returned to work.
Yet something felt different.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just different.
As though he was aware of me now.
Truly aware.
And the worst part?
I wasn't entirely sure that bothered me.
In fact, a small, reckless part of me liked it far too much.
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