Page 11 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

I was just starting to get the hang of things—or at least, I was learning some of the basics. My hands were covered in grease, the sleeves of the oversized coveralls were rolled up to my elbows, and I’d lost track of how many times Dean had smirked at me struggling with a wrench. It was annoying.

I was so proud of myself for figuring out what a ratchet wrench was and then how to use it. I marveled at the intelligence of the person who invented stuff like that. When he showed me how to switch the little thingie to make it tighten a bolt after loosening it, it was like understanding rocket propulsion.

I certainly never wanted to learn what a torque wrench was or how to pull a spark plug. But it was kind of cool. I felt weirdly empowered.

The occasional brush of Dean’s arm as he reached past me for a tool was kind of intoxicating. I kept getting whiffs of something that smelled good, which confused me. I knew I was smelling oil, which was gross, but it was the scent of leather, musk, and orange. That was when I figured out it was him. I was smelling him, and it was damn good.

It gave me butterflies, which was ridiculous because Dean was a rude, abrasive jerk who had ruined my manicure by making me work like this. I’d put on makeup and shaved my legs for this bullshit? I’d been on some bad dates before but never quite like this.

Still, as infuriating as the man was, there was something about the way Dean moved, the way he focused on the task at hand, that was oddly captivating. He didn’t say much, but when he did, his voice was low and gravelly, sending a shiver down my spine. I hated that I noticed. I hated that I cared. But I couldn’t help it. There was something about him that drew me in, even as I told myself I wanted nothing to do with him.

Dean had just told me to adjust the carburetor, and I was pretty sure he’d made that word up. I stood there, staring at the engine like it was some kind of alien contraption. “This isn’t a car,” I told him, stating the obvious.

He frowned at me. “No, it’s a motorcycle.”

“Then why would it have a carburetor? Shouldn’t it be like a bike buretor?”

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. “Alright,” he said, stepping up beside me. “Watch closely.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not a child, Dean. I can handle it.”

He raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll see.” He pointed to a weird little dial thing on the side of the engine. “This is the idle screw. You turn it like this.” He demonstrated like he had done it a thousand times. I supposed he probably had. “Just a little at a time. Too much, and the engine will rev too high. Too little, and it’ll stall.”

“Got it,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure I did. I reached for the screwdriver he’d set down, my fingers touching his as I picked it up. I tried to ignore the way my stomach fluttered at the contact.

“Go on,” he said, stepping back slightly to give me room.

I hesitated, then leaned in, carefully positioning the screwdriver on the screw. I turned it ever so slightly, just like he’d shown me. The engine made a weird sputtering noise.

“Too much,” Dean muttered under his breath, but he didn’t step in. He just watched me with that same infuriating smirk. It was like he was waiting for me to fail, and it only made me more determined to get it right.

I adjusted the screw again, this time turning it the other way. The engine sputtered again, then settled into a smoother hum. I glanced up at Dean, smiling triumphantly.

“See? I told you I could handle it,” I said.

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Lucky guess.”

“Lucky my ass,” I shot back, though I couldn’t help but laugh a little myself. “Admit it, I’m a natural.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—something that almost looked like respect. “Natural pain in the ass, maybe.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, earning a raised eyebrow and a muttered, “Mature.”

“Well, this isn’t something I thought I would ever see.”

I stood up to see Seth walking in. A handful of guys trailed behind him, laughing, carrying beer, making themselves at home in Dean’s space. The energy in the shop shifted. I was suddenly very aware of the outfit and my heels. I could only imagine what these men were thinking.

My stomach twisted the moment I saw them because I recognized some of them. These weren’t just old friends of Seth’s—they were the same guys from that night. The ones who had laughed when I was left stranded on the island during a high school bonfire. The ones who hadn’t come back for me, thinking it was a hilarious prank.

I’d never liked them, and growing up, I’d seen Dean bail Seth out of bad situations time after time. Seth would get into fights with older kids, and Dean would be the one to save him from getting his ass beat. He’d brought weed to school, and Dean had covered for him, taking the fall. He’d stolen a car a couple of years after graduation, and Dean had covered all his legal fees to make it go away. The list went on and on. I could only imagine what sort of things Seth was up to now.

“Damn,” Seth drawled, cracking open a beer. His gaze swept over me, taking in the mess I’d made of myself. “Didn’t think I’d find you here, Watson. You look different than at the auction.” His smirk deepened. “Grease is a good look on you.”

I forced a tight smile, unwilling to give him the reaction he wanted. “Thanks. You look exactly the same. Guess some things never change.”

The guys laughed, but it was edged with something meaner, something sharper. I felt like I was the awkward fourteen-year-old they liked to fuck with back in the day.