Avery
Irode straight through the workshop doors and killed the engine.
There was only one guy standing there with a wrench in one hand and a cable in the other. And yeah… he looked fucking hot. But every bad boy did till they went cold.
His eyes were on my bike. That was promising.
He looked up when I spoke. "You the mechanic?"
"Nah…"
He looked like he was about to say more, but I was in a big-ass hurry.
"You've got a wrench in your hand and a cable. You look like a mechanic to me."
From my peripheral vision I caught another guy coming through the doors with a brown paper bag. He had half a donut in one hand and the rest stuffed in his mouth.
Hot Guy pointed at him. "Here he is."
He who? The mechanic or the donut boy?
I looked at his vest and scoffed. His name. Wrench.
He grinned, still chewing, and held the bag out toward me. "Fresh and fluffy. Sink your teeth into one of these."
I waved him off. Too much sugar. I was already too angsty for my own liking… and probably everyone else's.
"It's British," Hot Guy said, nodding at my Triumph.
"So?"
He held his hands up, still clutching the wrench and cable.
Fuck. I needed to tone it down. Nobody else wanted to live inside my problems. But I couldn't help myself.
"You guys can't service British bikes?”
"British, German, Jap," Donut Boy said. "Anything that moves, I'll service."
He blinked.
Hot Guy laughed.
Donut Boy rolled his eyes. I got it. He never intended the double meaning.
Hot Guy, on the other hand? That was his first thought.
And my thought on that? Trouble.