Page 10 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

I could feel her frustration rolling off her in waves, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. Not yet.

“Alright,” she said, walking across the shop in her heels and coveralls.

I never knew that was a fantasy until just then. If the coveralls were just a little smaller, she’d look sexy. Instead, she looked cute in the goofiest way.

“Alright, what?” I asked.

“What’s next?”

“Now, we finish this engine rebuild.”

Portia crouched beside me, her brow furrowed. She turned a wrench over in her hands like it was some kind of alien artifact. “This is for, uh, tightening stuff?”

I exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half exasperation. “Yeah, if by ‘stuff’ you mean bolts. Here.” I took it from her, demonstrating. “You turn it like this. Not that hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, wiping her hand on her coveralls. “You probably came out of the womb knowing how to fix bikes.”

“Pretty sure I learned it the normal way, but thanks.” I smirked, then reached for another tool—only to have her hand dart out and grab the wrong one first.

“That’s not—” I paused, watching her hesitate. She turned the screwdriver over in her fingers before looking at me, expectant.

“Not what?” she challenged.

I sighed. “Not what we need. Here, let me⁠—”

“Nope,” she cut me off, determination flashing in her eyes. “I got this. Just tell me what to do.”

She didn’t, though. Not even close. She fumbled through the basics, mixing up tools, turning bolts the wrong way, and asking questions that made me seriously wonder if she’d ever been near a motorcycle before today.

But damn if she didn’t keep trying.

I could see the frustration in the tight set of her jaw, the way she huffed under her breath when she messed up. But she didn’t quit. And at some point—somewhere between her cursing under her breath and me explaining, half amused, half serious—I realized she was actually paying attention.

She asked questions, and not just the dumb ones. And instead of brushing them off, I answered, giving her more detail than I normally would. I had no idea if any of it was making sense to her, but I told her anyway.

Every time she leaned in, her perfume mixed with the oil and grease, an oddly distracting contrast. I should’ve hated it. I expected to.

But somehow, I didn’t.

I did hate how defiant she was, though. “Get me that rag, would you?”

She was frowning at a bolt she’d been trying to loosen for several minutes. “You have legs, get it yourself. You told me to get this bolt out. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” I said finally.

“And you’re a control freak. Guess we’re even.”

I shook my head, turning back to the engine. “This was a giant waste of twenty thousand.”

“Nobody forced your hand,” she shot back. “You could’ve just taken me out to dinner.”

I glanced over at her. “And miss out on all this fun? Not a chance.”

She rolled her eyes, but I could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual defiant glare, but it was enough to make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t hating this as much as she let on.