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She turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “There’s too much for Cyril to do by himself.”
Cash raised his eyebrows. “You think I’d trust him on his own? I’ll be here the whole time.”
If he’d meant to reassure her, he failed. His words only hardened her resolve. “I should stay.”
Her son appeared from the back, sidling through the door with two large cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. He shot her a sullen look. “Go home, Mom. I don’t want you here.”
She stiffened, absorbing the pain of rejection. “I can help.”
“I said I don’t want you here.”
His tone lashed her soul. She told herself it was just normal teenage rebellion, that he didn’t mean to be rude. It still hurt.
Three quick steps put Cash in front of Cyril. His hands hung loose at his sides, his wide shoulders and strong back blocking her view. His navy-blue T-shirt had short sleeves and the tattoos she’d caught a glimpse of last night twisted and wound around his muscled forearms.
She couldn’t hear his whispered words, only a deep bass growl. When he stepped aside, Cyril’s gaze tracked him, wide-eyed and wary, before he looked at her. “I’m sorry, Mom. Thanks for offering. But I did this. I will clean it up.”
Resentment bubbled. It wasn’t Cash’s place to reprimand her son. She was Cyril’s parent, not him.
Before she could remonstrate against his highhandedness, he strode past and opened the door. Brilliant sunlight flared into the room made dim by the plywood on the front walls and she squinted. “Goodbye, Penta. Come back at five.”
Her dignity had taken as much battering as she could handle. Her nose in the air, she swept out...and then spun on her toes to make one last plea.
For the second time in their short acquaintance, Cash shut a door in her face.
CASH DIDN’T FEEL BAD for forcing Penta Potter to leave. The lesson he intended to teach her son would be blunted if she bore some of the load, so she had to go. He understood why she was nervous. It wasn’t like his appearance inspired confidence, especially in nice, sheltered women from upper middle-class backgrounds.
She didn’t need to worry. He wasn’t going to beat the kid. Unless he continued to disrespect his mother. Then the boy would earn a smack upside the head.
He couldn’t help the inward bubble of hilarity whenever he thought of her name. Penta Potter. It belonged to a children’s variety performer, not a lush mature woman with a full-lipped mouth, fiery brown eyes, and tangle of curly hair. Penta meant five in Latin or something, didn’t it? He wondered why her parents had chosen it, and then wondered if she’d chosen it herself for a personal reason.
He wondered about her a lot as he and Cyril set the showroom to rights.
While he was a firm believer in making the punishment fit the crime, having the boy help was also a necessity. Absolute Motorcycle Repair was a one-man operation. The retail products he carried were just a sideline, a convenience for his customers. His main revenue came from restoring old bikes and maintaining new ones. People paid for Cash’s expertise, not some flunky, so he’d never had the inclination or need to take on staff. Officially he was closed on Sundays, though he usually worked at least a few hours anyway. And on the rare—extremely rare—occasions he would be away for a day or more, he updated his website and answering machine and left a notice on the door. No one had ever objected.
Together, he and the teen gathered up the items that had been tossed from the shelves and separated them into two piles—one of goods that could be salvaged and one of those too damaged to sell, even at a discount. He probably should have left everything as it was until he’d talked to his insurance company, but he couldn’t be bothered to wait. He’d put in a claim for the broken door and smashed windows and leave it at that.
Cyril worked in silence, his spine and shoulders stiff with protest. Since his complaints went unspoken, Cash chose to ignore the glares occasionally shot his way. He knew it was embarrassment more than fear that kept the boy quiet and was okay with that. The humiliation was part of the lesson the teen needed to learn.
They were interrupted a few times by customers dropping in. Cash helped those he could, but most he sent away for the time being. All of them expressed shock at the devastation and many studied Cyril with open curiosity. Cash offered only the briefest of details and refused to explain the boy’s presence.
It was just after noon, and he was wondering if he could trust Cyril to stick around if he went to grab burgers when the door opened once more. He looked up from examining the Gold Wing that had been knocked to the ground. A young woman stood silhouetted by the sunlight, poker straight blond hair streaming over her shoulders. Most of his customers were balding middle-aged men.
Making sure the bike was steady on its kickstand, he went to greet her. “Can I help you?”
She stared at him, blue eyes uncertain as she fidgeted with the hem of a belly-baring sweater. “Are you Cash? Cash Rylance?”
He nodded. There was something vaguely familiar about her. She was younger than he’d first thought, mid-teens probably. A scattering of acne reddened the skin on her forehead. Had she come to pick up an order for someone?
Her lip trembled and she lifted her chin with an odd sideways jerk. The gesture sparked a deeply hidden memory and his gut twisted. Hard.
“I’m Elle Stornaway,” she said with defiance. “Linda’s my mom. And you’re my dad.”
Chapter Three
“What are you doing here?” The words burst from Cash, propelled by shock and dismay.
Elle flinched but stood her ground. “To meet you.”
