Page 12 of Surprising Bones

CHAPTER FIVE

BONES

I don’t sleep for shit that night. I drift in and out, my mind consumed with fantasies of her. I dream she’s standing in my office, wearing nothing but one of my flannel shirts, running her finger over the edge of my desk and asking why I’m not touching her.

I wake up pissed off and hard, and I know there’s only one fucking cure for this condition. But until I can get my hands on Eden’s perfect goddamn body, I’ll have to Band-Aid it myself.

I jump in the shower, crank it to cold, and spend the next five minutes jerking myself off to memories of her lips. Doesn’t even dent the need. If anything, it just stokes the fire higher. I dry off, dress in jeans and a black T-shirt, and head down to the Boneyard Garage.

Diesel is already there, rummaging through the office. He’s got papers everywhere, coffee cup in one hand, a half-eaten donut in the other. He looks up as I come in.

“Top of the morning to you,” he grunts, stuffing the rest of the donut in his face.

I ignore the fucker. “I hired a new office manager and helped her move into the upstairs apartment.”

“About time.” He blinks several times then shrugs. “Maybe she can get this shit in order.” He snorts, pointing to the mess on top of the desk.

All I can think about is getting another taste of her mouth, but I force myself to play it cool.

“Make sure she has whatever she needs. And make sure the guys know she’s fucking off limits.” My words get Diesel’s attention.

“When the hell did I start working as your personal errand boy?” Diesel leans back against the edge of the desk, arms folded, giving me that look—the one he uses when he thinks I’m being unreasonable.

“Just do it.” My voice is flat, but there’s bite in it. I lean over the desk and get in his face. “She isn’t just some chick. Eden’s fucking different. Anyone so much as thinks about crossing a line, and they’ll answer to me.”

Diesel just whistles, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re already pussy-whipped.”

He isn’t wrong. Eden already means everything to me. “I didn’t ask for your goddamn two cents.”

He holds up both hands in surrender. “Whatever, man. Your business is your business. Just surprised you’re letting a chick take up this much headspace.”

“Get used to it,” I growl. All I want is to haul Eden up against me, taste her lips, and mark her as mine.

Diesel is still grinning, shaking his head like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “I’ll make sure the guys get the memo. Don’t want anyone ending up in traction.”

“That’s fucking right,” I tell him as he grabs his coffee and heads out the door.

A few minutes later, the hair stands up on the back of my neck, and I feel her before she steps into the shop front door right on time. Her hair is tamed into a braid this morning, face bare and beautiful, that same old battered backpack slung over one shoulder. She pauses and takes in the assembled crowd of grease monkeys, and marches right in like she owns the place.

I meet her at the front counter. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Good morning.” She smiles.

“Ready to get going?” I ask as she follows me through the main bay. We don’t make it ten feet before Diesel comes strolling over to meet the woman who has me tied in knots.

“Asshole,” he says, nodding at me, then turns to Eden. “You must be our new office manager. I’m Diesel, Bones’s business partner.”

“Nice to meet you, Diesel.” She smiles at him, and I curse under my breath as jealousy cuts through me. Goddamn it. I am acting like a caveman.

“I’m going to introduce her around,” I tell him as the rest of the crew filters in to meet Eden. Benny, a string bean with more tattoos than teeth who can fix anything with a motor. Jax, who could rebuild a carburetor blindfolded but can’t remember where he fucking parked. Then there’s Edwin and Chris, twin brothers and mechanical geniuses.

After all the introductions, I walk her through the side door to the “office.” The term is generous. The room is barely bigger than a walk-in closet and looks like a tornado had a three-way with a filing cabinet and a battered old desk that’s covered in piles of mail, old receipts, and random tools. A cheap laptop sits on a battered blotter, and the wall behind is lined with shelves crammed with manila folders.

“Holy shit,” she says, looking around. “How do you find anything in here?”

“I have a system,” I say, then look over and wink at her. “Mostly, I just call Diesel and make him find it.”

She surveys the disaster, then pulls out a legal pad and starts making notes. “This might require some overtime.”