“Ginger’s the, uh, the receptionist, or, uh, secretary, so maybe show her how all this works, okay?”
A loud motor pulled into one of the drive bays, and a moment later the showroom door opened to a cheerful jingle.
Ginger flashed her eyes at him. “Should I go . . .?”
“No,” said Cain. “Stay here and get these computers workin’, okay?” He gestured to a mountain of unsorted paperwork. “And maybe make sense out of that? I’ll come check up on you later.”
And he meant to. Hell, he would have liked to spend the whole fucking day just staring at her. But the suicide clutch guy was part of a motorcycle hobbyist club two towns away, and he called a guy who called a guy who called a guy, and Cain was lying under an antique British motorcycle called a Vincent Rapide C when he noticed Linus walking back to his black, white, and orange VW bug.
“Linus!” he called. “Already done for the day?”
Linus turned around, looking perplexed. “Already? It’s a quarter to seven. But yeah, I’m finally done. I’ll send a bill.”
Cain glanced at his watch and blinked when he saw the time. Holy shit. She was leaving in fifteen minutes.
Three motonuts were still hanging out with Cain in the drive bay, but he rolled to his knees and stood up. “You know, boys, I gotta close up shop in a few. Vic, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with that clutch. Frank, can you leave the Vincent with me for a few days?”
“Sure thing, Cain,” said Frank, giving Cain an appreciative nod.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll give you a call when I fix the front forks. Might need to send for some parts.”
“Dang, son, but you know your way around a bike.”
Cain grinned at the older man. “Been tinkerin’ with ’em for as long as I can remember.”
He waved good-bye to the men, welcoming them back anytime, then turned and headed inside to salvage a few precious minutes with Ginger.
He knocked lightly on the open office door and watched as she looked up at him from the desk, which was now twenty times more organized than it had been that morning. All his bills and receipts had been replaced by a neat stack of folders, and the two laptops sat back to back on the desk, with an office chair pushed into one side and a guest chair pushed into the other.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said, wiping his greasy hands on his coveralls and stepping into the room. “How’d it go today?”
“Good.” She gestured to the files. “Purchases and receipts categorized and filed.” She pointed to a small pile of pink notes. “Phone messages.” She picked up the laptop before her and turned it to face him. “A simple bookkeepin’ system that Linus helped me download.”
“It looks great in here, Gin. Thanks for gettin’ me organized.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome. I decided to take messages rather than disturb you. Seemed like you had enough work to keep you busy for today.”
“Thanks.”
“And from the look of that pile, I don’t think you’ll be wantin’ for work tomorrow either.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, it’s just about seven. I guess I’ll be goin’.” She pulled her coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “So I’ll see you again on Fri—”
“Hey, um . . .” He put his hands on his hips, feeling a sudden heat warm his cheeks. “Would you, uh . . . would you want to have dinner with me on Friday? After work?”
“Sure.” She grinned at him. “But won’t your girlfriends be jealous?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said, keeping his expression stone cold sober.
“Well, if we’re bein’ honest, you never did have a proper girlfriend,” she said lightly, “What you had was a boatload of—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “There’s only one girl I’m interested in right now, Gin. And she’s standin’ in front of me.”
Her eyes widened, and he watched the pulse in her neck spring to life. Her lips parted in surprise, and she searched his face, pressing her palm to her chest.
“Me?”
You stakin’ a claim here?
He nodded. “Ain’t no one else here, princess.”
“Wait. Um.” She cocked her head to the side, her face set somewhere between shocked and confused. “I’m sorry, but Cain . . . are you askin’ me out on a date?”
“I don’t know much about datin’, Ginger. But yes,” he said, nodding his head, “you could call it that, I guess.”
“I’m more curious about what you’d call it,” she said, lowering her chin and raising her eyebrows.
Sassy. His heart thundered. His balls tightened. Damn.
He nailed her with his eyes, unable to keep his lips from twitching into a grin. He rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb, staring at her—staring at her the way he would if she was naked on his bed and he had all night long.
“I’d call it a date,” he finally said, his voice gravel.
“Oh,” she murmured, blinking at him. “Huh. I wasn’t, um, I wasn’t . . .”
Shit. Was she turning him down? Oh, fuck. He’d read this situation for shit, and then some.
“You know what? Just, uh, just forget it,” he said, taking a deep breath and trying to hold back the overwhelming wave of disappointment that threatened to flatten him where he stood.