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Doc came to his rescue. “We’ve been chatting and think it’s better to keep Wilde hidden for now.”
“Yeah.” Celt tossed the toothpick toward the trash next to the door. “As long as you’re safe, he’s right.” But I didn’t get the sense he believed his own words. “You having breakfast?”
“Nah, I’m good. Groceries and all.” I stepped over the bench and stood.
“I’ll stop by later,” called Celt.
Turning, I gave him a thumbs up. “You too, Doc?”
“Yeppers,” he answered, and I heard Kim ask, “Can I come?” just before I started up my bike.
Sunglasses on, I rolled the throttle, and the rumble drowned out his answer.
I parked in the carport out back, lumbered inside, and set the bags next to the fridge just in time to hear a crash from the shop. Shit. What now? I untangled the plastic from my wrist and dashed around the counter. To my left, parts of a master cylinder were scattered on my workbench—the wrong workbench for part-work. I growled. “What the hell?”
Wilde’s head popped up from behind a motorcycle.
“What are you doing?”
He waved a hand lever toward the bench. “Pretty obvious, no?”
“The greasy work happens there.” I pointed to the right, more cluttered side of the shop.
“Hey. You want me gone. I want me gone. Thought fixing up Betty would be a win-fucking-win situation.” He ducked back behind the machine.
Crass, but was he actually trying to be nice? I circled the bike and crouched to help. “If you’re gonna work in my shop, keep shit separated. Grease over here will jack up the paint.”
Wilde grunted, sat back on his one good heel, the casted one out straight in front of him, and rotated his shoulder.
“You should be resting.” I reached for the piston that had skidded away.
He reached too, but I grabbed it first. His hand, warm and strong, wrapped around mine. “I’ll be fine. I’m just stiff.” He looked me in the eye and held tight enough I couldn’t release my grip.
I stood, thinking he’d release my hand then, but no. He stood with me, a little awkwardly in his cast, but he wouldn’t let go. All movements seemed to slow down until we were facing each other. My view landed on his chest; the black tank stretched over its expanse. Black, white, and red tats covered one arm and shoulder. A crimson sunset painted the backdrop to his bike, Betty, across one shoulder and red roses climbed over his collarbone and onto his neck. My mouth watered.
No, Bou, just no. I wiggled my wrist and freed myself from his grip and put some distance between us. “If you’re rebuilding parts, do it over here.”
Tap-CLUNK, Tap-CLUNK , boot-CAST, he followed.
I spread the parts I’d picked up over the bench, and in a matter of seconds, his heat blanketed my back. A hand tentatively touched my elbow. Keeping my body utterly still I turned my head enough so I could see him in the corner of my vision.
“Thanks.” Wilde swallowed as if that word almost hurt him physically.
“No worries.” I dusted off the vinyl stool for Wilde to sit. But I stopped with both hands on the seat, my throat tight. I couldn’t count the times when Pops had lifted me onto that red vinyl to show me how to repair one small assembly or another.
“Really, Bou. I mean it.” His voice sounded strange, strangled, but a serious note had crept inside.
I blinked up at him. Was that a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth?
He lifted a shoulder. “Working makes waiting tolerable.”
And damn me, I understood. I wouldn’t want to be an invalid either, but the last thing I needed to feel with this man was any kind of connection.
10
Wilde
The doors to Bou’s shop were rolled all the way up, and the shop fans buzzed away, but sweat still dripped down my face. I wiped my forehead with the bottom of my tank top.
