Page 9 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

“Damn, Portia, what kind of man do you think I am?”

“I have no idea what kind of man you are, and I don’t care,” she said. “So, am I helping or what?”

“Fine,” I said, shrugging. “But try not to break anything.”

I was absolutely certain she had never stepped foot in a shop. I doubted she knew a wrench from a ratchet and she was still wearing those fuck-me heels. The wrench dangled awkwardly from her hand, like she was holding a dead fish.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I tightened a bolt on the engine. She glanced at the bike, then at the tools scattered across the workbench, then back at the bike again. She looked completely lost.

“So,” she said finally, her irritation thinly veiled. “What do you need me to do?”

I straightened up and wiped my hands on a rag, trying not to smirk. “You ever worked on an engine before?”

She hesitated. “No,” she admitted, lifting her chin like she was daring me to challenge her. “But I’m a quick learner. And I’m not just going to stand here while you work.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right. Well, start by handing me that.” I pointed to a socket wrench on the bench. ”And try not to break a nail.”

She put down the first wrench and grabbed the right one, but her grip was all wrong. The tool slipped out of her hand and clattered onto the concrete floor with a loud metallic clang. She winced and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “cocksucker,” but I was sure she was too much of a lady to say something like that.

Twenty minutes in a mechanic shop and she’s already cursing like a sailor on shore leave. Maybe she’s not as bad as I thought.

Portia bent down to pick up the wayward wrench, her dress riding up just enough to catch my attention. None of my other workers, when they were around, looked a fraction as good as she did. It was a struggle to keep myself from staring.

Not that I needed to keep checking her out. Those curves were already seared into my mind. She might be annoying but her body was a work of art.

“Here’s your dumb wrench,” she said, thrusting it at me. “Now what?”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, taking it from her. “Now stand back. This part requires precision. One wrong move, and you’ll be buying me a new engine.”

That wasn’t actually true, but I wanted her to know this was serious.

She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed. “Fine. But don’t expect me to just stand back and let you do all the work. If I’m going to be here, I’m going to actually contribute.”

I glanced at her, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Contribute, huh? Alright, sweetheart. Hand me the torque wrench—the one with the red handle.”

She hesitated, her eyes scanning the tools on the bench before she tentatively picked up the right one. She handed it to me, her movements careful, like she was afraid the thing might bite her hand off. “How many different wrenches do you need?”

“As many as it takes,” I said. “These are precision machines. They need precision tools.”

“Do you have an apron or something?”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “An apron?”

“Yeah. I mean, do you just… get your clothes dirty?”

I wanted to laugh. I had never heard anything so ridiculous. “You’re worried about your clothes getting dirty… in a motorcycle shop?”

She frowned, clearly not appreciating my tone. “Well, yeah. These aren’t exactly throwaway outfits.” She gestured down at her perfectly pressed dress and those ridiculous heels. “And, for the record, I didn’t exactly plan on spending my evening in this grease pit. You implied this would be our date. Let me tell you, if this is your idea of a date, I think I know why you’re single.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “I don’t see a ring on your finger either, Ms. Judgmental. So maybe don’t go throwing stones.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying, a little warning would have been nice. I would have worn jeans, or at least a junkier dress.”

“Fine, if you’re worried about ruining your pretty little dress, there’s a closet over there with some coveralls. They’re probably too big for you, but they’ll keep the grease off, Princess.”

Her eyes narrowed at the nickname, but she didn’t snap back at me for once. Instead, she marched over to the closet with all the determination of someone who refused to be intimidated. She yanked open the door and pulled out a pair of faded black coveralls that were easily three sizes too big for her. She held them up with a look of mild disgust but stepped into them. The crotch hung low enough to accommodate her dress.

She wrestled with the zipper for a solid minute before finally getting it up to her collarbone. The sleeves hung past her hands, and the legs pooled around her feet, making her look like a kid playing dress up.