Chapter 4 Cracks in the Armor
Grease-Stained Hands
By the third morning, I had reached an uncomfortable conclusion.
Elliot Reed was impossible to ignore.
Not because he was loud.
The kid was probably one of the quietest people I'd ever met.
He wasn't demanding.
He didn't complain.
He didn't get in the way.
If anything, he tried too hard not to be a burden.
That was exactly the problem.
Most temporary guests made their presence known. They asked questions. They invaded routines. They left messes behind.
Elliot somehow did the opposite.
He slipped into the rhythm of the garage without disrupting anything.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, I'd started noticing every time he wasn't nearby.
I didn't like that realization.
Not one bit.
The garage was already open when I arrived downstairs that morning.
Sunlight streamed through the front windows.
The smell of fresh coffee mixed with oil and metal.
Everything felt normal.
At least until I spotted Elliot sitting at the front desk.
My front desk.
A pair of reading glasses rested on his nose as he stared at paperwork spread across the counter.
I stopped walking.
The sight was strangely unexpected.
Not because he was doing anything wrong.
The opposite.
He looked like he'd been working there for months.
His dark hair fell across his forehead.
One sleeve of his sweater had slipped down slightly.
A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside him.
The image felt domestic in a way that immediately made me uncomfortable.
Elliot looked up.
His face brightened.
"Morning."
Something in my chest shifted.
I ignored it.
"Morning."
His attention returned to the papers.
I frowned.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping."
The answer sounded obvious.
I walked closer.
The paperwork belonged to the garage.
Invoices.
Orders.
Customer records.
Nothing particularly exciting.
Yet somehow Elliot had organized the entire pile into neat stacks.
I stared at them.
Then at him.
Then back at the paperwork.
"You did this?"
"Most of it."
I picked up one folder.
Everything was labeled.
Sorted.
Categorized.
Hell.
It was better than my system.
Not that my system was difficult to improve.
Rhett regularly referred to my filing methods as organized chaos.
The important thing was that I always knew where everything was.
Eventually.
Usually.
"You're supposed to be relaxing."
Elliot looked horrified.
The reaction caught me off guard.
"Relaxing?"
"Yeah."
His expression somehow became even more distressed.
"That sounds terrible."
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The sound surprised both of us.
Elliot smiled immediately.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
The kid had figured out how much I enjoyed making him smile.
Not intentionally.
But still.
"You've got weird hobbies."
"I'm a writer."
"That's not an excuse."
"It explains everything."
Fair point.
I couldn't argue with that.
The office phone rang.
Before I could reach it, Elliot answered.
Professional.
Polite.
Efficient.
By the time he hung up, he'd already written down the customer's information and added it to a repair schedule.
I stared.
He noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
The answer was a lie.
Elliot was useful.
Incredibly useful.
And useful people were difficult to send away.
That realization created another problem.
His car would eventually be repaired.
Then he'd leave.
The thought shouldn't have bothered me.
Instead, it lingered longer than it should have.
Fortunately, work provided a distraction.
Customers arrived steadily throughout the morning.
Repairs needed attention.
Orders required filling.
The usual chaos of running a business.
For several hours, I focused entirely on motorcycles.
That was safer.
Machines made sense.
People didn't.
Especially not people like Elliot.
Every time I looked toward the office, he was doing something productive.
Answering phones.
Organizing invoices.
Updating customer records.
At one point, he even redesigned a scheduling spreadsheet that had annoyed me for years.
The kid was terrifying.
Around noon, I found him standing beside one of the repair bays.
Watching me work.
Again.
I pretended not to notice.
Mostly because I wasn't entirely sure what to do about it.
His attention felt different from everyone else's.
Customers watched because they were curious.
Elliot watched because he genuinely cared.
There was a difference.
A significant one.
I tightened a bolt beneath the motorcycle frame.
When I looked up again, he was still there.
"Need something?"
Elliot blinked.
Apparently he hadn't realized he'd been caught.
"Sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I was staring."
At least he was honest.
"Noticed."
His cheeks turned pink.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I returned my attention to the motorcycle.
A few seconds later, he spoke again.
"What exactly are you doing?"
I glanced upward.
The question sounded genuine.
Not small talk.
Actual curiosity.
I sat up slightly.
"Fuel system."
"Oh."
Silence followed.
Then:
"What's that?"
I closed my eyes briefly.
The kid knew absolutely nothing about motorcycles.
Not a single thing.
For some reason, I found that oddly charming.
"Come here."
Elliot immediately obeyed.
He stopped beside me.
Close enough that I caught the faint scent of coffee and laundry detergent.
Unexpectedly distracting.
I pointed toward the motorcycle.
"This sends fuel to the engine."
He nodded seriously.
Like I was explaining advanced physics.
"This controls pressure."
Another nod.
"And if that breaks?"
"The bike doesn't run."
His face lit up.
Understanding.
Simple.
Honest.
Ridiculously satisfying.
Most people would've pretended to understand.
Elliot actually wanted to learn.
The realization made me smile slightly.
A dangerous mistake.
Because Elliot immediately noticed.
"There it is."
I frowned.
"There what is?"
"The smile."
God help me.
I should've known he would bring it up.
"It wasn't a smile."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
Elliot looked far too pleased with himself.
I returned to work before the conversation became any more ridiculous.
Unfortunately, the damage was done.
For the rest of the afternoon, I found myself noticing things.
The way he tucked hair behind his ear while reading.
The way he hummed quietly when concentrating.
The way he always thanked people for small acts of kindness.
The way customers seemed to trust him almost immediately.
Most of all, I noticed how easily he fit into the garage.
That surprised me.
At first glance, Elliot didn't belong here.
Too soft.
Too academic.
Too clean.
Yet somehow he'd become part of the place.
The customers liked him.
The phone rang less because he answered it.
The paperwork stayed organized.
Even the atmosphere felt different.
Lighter somehow.
Which should have annoyed me.
Instead, I found myself enjoying it.
That realization arrived late in the afternoon.
A simple moment.
Nothing dramatic.
I was finishing paperwork when Elliot left the office to grab coffee from the break room.
The space immediately felt quieter.
Emptier.
The difference lasted less than two minutes.
Yet I noticed it.
That was the problem.
I noticed.
When he returned carrying two cups instead of one, he handed me a coffee without being asked.
I accepted it automatically.
Neither of us commented on the gesture.
We didn't need to.
The silence felt comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
I watched him return to the desk.
Watched him resume whatever task currently held his attention.
And for the first time in years, I experienced a thought that should have worried me far more than it did.
Tomorrow morning, I'd probably expect him to be there.
Sitting behind the desk.
Organizing paperwork.
Asking questions.
Smiling at things that shouldn't be funny.
The realization settled quietly inside me.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Yet impossible to ignore.
I was beginning to look forward to seeing Elliot Reed every day.
And that was a problem I had absolutely no idea how to fix.
The Senator's Son
By the time the garage closed for the night, I was exhausted.
Not physically.
Mentally.
There was a difference.
Writing all afternoon should have helped. Usually it did. Most days, writing untangled the mess inside my head and organized it into something manageable.
Today it had only created new problems.
Specifically, a six-foot-three problem with tattoos, broad shoulders, and dark eyes.
Not that I was thinking about Jaxon.
Much.
Okay, maybe a little.
The problem was that the more time I spent around him, the harder it became to fit him into the category I'd originally assigned him.
Dangerous biker.
Simple.
Easy.
Safe.
Except he wasn't.
Dangerous men weren't patient during panic attacks.
Dangerous men didn't make coffee in the morning.
Dangerous men didn't offer complete strangers a place to stay with absolutely no expectations attached.
Jaxon kept ruining my assumptions.
It was incredibly inconvenient.
I sat at the small kitchen table while pretending to work on my manuscript.
The keyword was pretending.
The document had been open for twenty minutes.
I hadn't written a single sentence.
My attention kept drifting toward the living room.
Jaxon sat on the couch reviewing invoices from the garage.
The television played quietly in the background.
Neither of us seemed particularly interested in it.
Comfortable silence filled the apartment.
A strange thing.
Most silences made me nervous.
This one didn't.
Maybe because it didn't feel empty.
Maybe because Jaxon had somehow made this place feel safe.
The thought settled warmly inside me.
Dangerous thought.
Very dangerous.
I pushed it aside and focused on my laptop.
Five minutes later, I was still staring at a blank page.
Wonderful.
A bestselling career clearly awaited me.
A soft snort sounded from the couch.
I looked up.
Jaxon hadn't lifted his eyes from the paperwork.
"Writer's block?"
I sighed dramatically.
"Don't say those words."