Chapter 5 - Sergey #2
Forcing myself to put the picture down again, I continue my search anyway, gathering whatever relevant intel about her I can while I have the chance.
Eventually, I find a pistol tucked in a velvet case in the top drawer of her nightstand, as expected, along with a salacious toy in the bottom one that gives me far too many ideas and so little time.
The mental image of her using it while alone at night is enough to make my pants tighten…But I shove that thought right back down again before it can spiral out of control.
Focus, Sergey…
But try as I might, those tantalizing daydreams follow me back to the shop, where Kat is working on my bike with the garage doors open.
She’s in their godforsaken coveralls again, but the top portion is rolled down and sitting loosely around her hips while the black tank top she has on reveals the beginning of a sleeve tattoo on her right arm.
Jesus Christ…
Her hair is pulled back in a careless yet endearing ponytail, and there’s a practiced ease about the way she makes careful strokes with the paint gun, seemingly lost in her work.
It’s almost absurd how little I care about that bike, given how I only bought it as an excuse to get closer to her. But her eyes had lit up the moment I mentioned the model, and seeing her work on it now with such quiet confidence has me feeling an unexpected flicker of pride.
She’s damn good at what she does, and I may be acting way too cozy about someone I don’t know all that well, but her dedication to this is far sexier than I’d like to admit.
And the thought of Roland having the privilege of working beside her every day, breathing the same air, and seeing that side of her up close makes something oppressive and dark curl in my chest.
With a breath, I remind myself these aren’t rational thoughts, but it doesn’t help in the slightest.
I want Kat’s attention on me, even if I don’t deserve it. I want every moment, regardless of how insane that makes me.
When I see she’s done with the bike from that safe distance, I give her some time before I step in through the front door, hearing the gentle chime of the bell above my head. Even if I’m supposed to wait there, I don’t care, and I continue into the shop.
Immediately, Kat glances over at me from the workbench while she cleans up her tools and supplies. She keeps her expression calm yet distant.
“You’re early.”
“I couldn’t wait, and I had the feeling it was done,” I say simply, hands in my pockets while I let my gaze sweep over her briefly before landing on the Panigale. “Seems I was right.”
Kat hums to herself noncommittally as she wipes her hand on a rag. “Lucky you. It’s ready.”
Taking in the sleek bodywork, there’s no mistaking how much cleaner and intense it looks now. The glossy black paint gleams viciously under the lights while faint bursts of color mingle together. All in all, it’s flawless.
Even if I didn’t give a shit about the thing to begin with, I can already feel my interest in it shifting thanks to her.
“You have the special touch when it comes to these things.”
“You sound surprised,” she states, letting me feel her eyes on me.
I shake my head absently before glancing in her direction. “Not surprised…impressed.”
Her eyes lock with mine for a moment, and for a beat, I swear I catch a glimpse of pride in them. Satisfaction, even. But of course, she keeps that part quiet.
“Good,” Kat murmurs, brushing me off already. “Then we’re done here.”
Ouch.
Before I can even consider letting the moment collapse right in front of myself, the words leave my mouth. “Not quite.”
Kat cocks a brow at me, seemingly caught off guard by the claim, and she crosses her arms. “Please tell me you’re not here to try and act charming.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then don’t waste your breath,” she says with a disinterested sigh while she turns away from me, focusing on the workbench again.
Her tone is cold and sharp, almost like she has honed it over the years. But I catch the subtle tension in her body, almost like she’s holding back somehow.
Even if she doesn’t want to admit it, she feels something. I know she does.
“You know,” I begin casually, taking a few steps closer, moving away from the bike. “Most women don’t make me run in circles like this.”
“They must have bad taste, then.”
Something about the snarky comment nearly makes my lips pull in a grin. Almost.
Pushing the amusement down, I force my voice to remain level and steady.
“And do you think you’re immune to me?”
A bold step, but I’m getting impatient.
“I know I am,” Kat returns, not missing a beat in such an agonizing way.
“Keep believing that. But you really shouldn’t take your emotions out on your tools like that.”
Kat’s fingers instinctively loosen up on the paint canister in her hand at the mention of it, and I catch a slow, deliberate breath escaping her. She doesn’t look back at me.
“Take your bike and leave.”
Her words are firm and unwavering, but I feel like pushing.
“A polite little please would go a long way…”
As much as I’d love to hear her say it, she doesn’t.
Grinning to myself, I savor the tension furling around her before heading back over to the Panigale.
Kat can keep pushing me out for as long as she wants, but I can see it in the way she holds herself with so much rigidity that it can’t be mistaken for anything else.
I’ve been alive long enough to know the difference between genuine rejection and resistance masking something else. Something deeper she doesn’t want to face just yet.
But she will eventually.
This is far from over.