Chapter 4 - Katya
The smell of lacquer and motor oil lingers in the shop, clinging to my clothes and skin as usual.
Maybe some people would find the persistent smell annoying, given how it takes many washes to get out, but I don’t mind it.
It’s comforting and serves as a reminder of everything I’ve built alongside Roland.
Crouching next to an old Harley, I do my best to smooth out a stubborn ridge of primer on its side panel when the bell above the front door jingles. I pause before turning down the radio, waiting to hear a conversation break out from inside the small showroom.
When I hear nothing, I stand and reach for the rag in my back pocket.
“Roland?” I call out, not yet looking up.
“Not Roland,” a smooth, unfamiliar masculine voice answers instead.
I freeze on instinct, then take a breath before turning around and wiping my hands down. The man standing in the doorway leading to the shop certainly isn’t Roland.
My brows furrow immediately as the recognition sets in.
It’s him.
The guy from the meetup the other night.
He has the same leather jacket, the same relaxed posture as if nothing could touch him. His dark hair looks put into place more intentionally this time, and his eyes are much sharper. Too sharp for a random walk-in.
Even seeing him after the fact seems too strange to be a complete coincidence.
“You,” I say flatly, not backing the word with any personal feelings.
His lips pull into a faint grin as if I’ve already committed myself to whatever game he’s playing. “So you remember me. I suppose that’s a good start.”
“I remember a guy who looked out of place the other night. I’m not sure if that counts as memorable,” I murmur, tossing the rag onto the workbench.
“Maybe I’m just hard to forget then.”
It takes every bit of self-restraint I have to not roll my eyes, but I feel a subtle stammer in my chest all the same. He moves a bit closer, keeping his stride slow and unhurried, and his gaze flickers around the garage.
“You do all of this yourself?” He asks, gesturing with his head to the half-assembled work behind me.
“The detailing, yes.”
Something genuine moves through his eyes then. “Impressive.”
“Thanks,” I murmur noncommittally, “Now do you need anything, or are you just here to dish out compliments?”
He shrugs. “Both.”
I cock a brow at him, unable to find a suitable reply.
“I saw your work on the Ducati the other night,” he continues, speaking so casually about it as if we exchanged more than a glance during the meet. “The lines were clean, the finish was perfect. Not bad for someone making their way fixing up paint jobs.”
“Not bad?” I echo, sensing something else in his words, almost like he’s attempting to pry. “And I assume that’s supposed to be high praise?”
He chuckles to himself at that. The sound is low and warm, and would probably soften most people.
But not me. At least, I don’t allow it to.
“I’d like to think so, anyway,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “But I do mean it. You’ve got talent.”
I take a quick moment to pull in a discreet breath and keep myself from reading too deeply into his words.
It doesn’t help that he looks just as gorgeous as he had that night, but now, while in a more private space, there’s an intensity about his focus on me that’s hard to ignore.
And yet, I don’t know his name.
“Flattering…but do you need something?”
His smile doesn’t falter. “I want you to work on my bike.”
I try to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but it isn’t too effective. “What kind?”
“Panigale V4.”
This makes me pause. Maybe he does know more about this kind of thing than I initially assumed.
I know the model, of course. It’s sleek, precise, and definitely not cheap.
My brows lift before I can stop them. “You have a Panigale, and you want to bring it here?”
His words leave him innocently. “Why not?”
“Because most people with that kind of ride don’t come to garages like this.
Normally, they’ll throw money at whatever name-brand dealership will kiss their ass the fastest,” I return, unable to grapple with the fact that he seemed to be doing all of this on a whim.
I wasn’t one to turn down work, but still. It didn’t entirely make sense.
He lets go of an amused-sounding huff. “Maybe I’d rather throw money at someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Or maybe you like impressing people with your possessions.”
This time, he cocks a brow at me, looking vaguely surprised by the subtle accusation. “Would it work if I were?”
“No.”
As if it doesn’t sting at all, he grins wider.
“You’re hesitant, I get it. You’ve likely had your fair share of assholes in here,” he says, putting up placating hands. “But rest assured, I’m not interested in the run-of-the-mill service a dealership could get me. I’d rather see what you can do.”
I should tell him no, just based on him scouting me out after the meet. I should clean my hands of him right here, right now.
Guys like him, the ones who dress nicely, have too many expensive things to care about, and can charm easily, they’re always a problem. One way or another, there will be some kind of hang-up, and I’ve spent my whole life avoiding those strings.
But then again…I don’t see Panigales in here often. And, if he’s so willing to throw money at my business, then so be it.
“Fine,” I mutter, vaguely annoyed that his attempts to get his way are unfortunately working. “Bring it in, and I’ll take a look.”
His amusement shifts into satisfaction. “Today?”
“No, I’m busy. Come by tomorrow morning.”
He seems like the type to expect everyone to operate on his time and make exceptions for him, but where I have power, I’m damn well going to use it.
Surprisingly, his smile softens, and for a split second, there’s something else in his gaze. Something calculating. It makes my stomach twist, but at once, it’s gone again.
He hums. “Tomorrow it is.”
I nod, expecting that to be the end of the conversation, but he doesn’t leave right away.
Instead, he glances around the place again, looking over Roland’s latest project like he has all the time in the world.
I fight the urge to sigh as I pull my phone out. “What’s your number?”
His eyes settle on me immediately, almost looking startled at the question, before schooling his expression with a slight smirk. “Are you always this direct with customers?”
“You’re not a customer yet,” I remind him, gesturing vaguely with my phone. “It’s for your service ticket. I need your name and number in case I have to contact you.”
My no-nonsense answer doesn’t seem like what he wanted to hear, but he nods anyway and takes a few steps closer until he’s right in front of me, holding his hand out.
“Alright…let me.”
His sudden proximity makes me pause, almost instinctively wanting to pull back. But I stand my ground, glancing between him and my phone.
Feeling like it’s some kind of surrender, I sigh and hand the phone over. I keep my eyes on him closely.
Once again, he looks pleased by this, and his thumbs move across the screen with ease.
My stomach does a slight flip as his cologne hits me, cutting through the lingering paint fumes. It’s rich and annoyingly appealing.
“It’s Sergey, by the way,” he murmurs before handing the phone back and not pulling away. His gaze lingers on me while his lips tug upward again. “I look forward to having a Katya original done.”
My eyes narrow at him slightly. “I said I’d take a look, but I haven’t made any promises yet. Again, you’re a pending customer. And Kat is fine.”
“Alright then, Kat,” he muses, showing no signs of refraining from getting under my skin. “And if I were a customer already?”
“Then I’d tell you to stop hovering,” I return, surprising even myself by being so upfront with him.
Sergey’s grin lingers, putting his hands back in his pockets. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“There are many other harsh things I could say instead to get the point across.”
He cocks a brow at me again, like I’ve caught him off guard. Then he chuckles. “You don’t pull your punches.”
“No, I don’t,” I murmur, finding myself feeling more and more annoyed by his lingering. Something flutters in my chest at being this close to him, but I force myself to shove it down again. “Why would I?”
He hums. “Most women do.”
“I don’t belong in a box with a label, like most don’t.”
“True,” he concedes with something else in his gaze now. “Still, you seem like a rare breed.”
“Rare doesn’t mean easy.”
This stops him, even if for just a moment. That flicker of surprise moves through his eyes again, almost like he’s not used to anyone pushing back or shutting him down.
Good…let him sit with that.
I’ve seen too many men like him in this city. The ones who think they can smooth-talk their way out of anything, assuming their expensive lifestyle will get them out of everything. The type who assumes they’re doing you a favor by noticing your existence. Like their presence is a gift in itself.
As attractive as he is, I don’t feel like getting ensnared with someone like him. I sure as hell don’t want to give him any kind of satisfaction.
His charm might work on someone else, but I wasn’t raised the way he seems to expect. I’m not a pushover.
After a moment of silence lingers between us, the corners of his lips pull slightly tighter, and he allows that nonchalance to return.
“Alright then…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hate the way his voice makes something in me squirm.
“Good. Now go. I have work to do.”
Sergey chuckles with a nod of his head, then turns around and heads through the open garage door rather than the main entrance. “Good luck with that, Kat.”
There’s something about the way he says my name that makes my skin crawl, but also sends a thrill down my spine. Either way, I can’t focus on it.
Without another look, he disappears, leaving a few lingering notes of his cologne behind.
“Who the hell was that?”
Before I can fully gather my bearings, I glance over my shoulder to find Roland coming in again with two wrapped sandwiches in his hands. I sigh. “Just a potential customer. He’s coming by tomorrow.”
He nods absently, keeping his gaze on the garage doors for another moment. “You know him?”
“Aside from seeing him at the meet the other night, no.”
Roland hums and hands me one of the sandwiches. “Feels like trouble.”
I murmur my thanks while I accept the offering and let myself settle into break mode. “To be fair, everything feels like trouble to you.”
His blue eyes gleam with subtle amusement. “Because it’s usually the case.”
Letting go of a breath, I don’t have a suitable rebuttal, and I refrain from arguing.
In truth, he’s right.
Sergey does feel like trouble, and I have no intentions of getting caught up in whatever chaos he might bring.