MILES
“Fuck!”I curse at my phone’s ringtone. I don’t recognize the number.
I’m pacing in front of my motorcycle and take in the dented chrome, the torn seat. Faded paint job. The scent of motor oil is like a familiar balm. I can’t wait to get my hands on my latest project. I’ll work a few hours on her later, starting to take her apart to fix her up. It’ll ease this…aggravation.
No.Anger.
At who, though?
I put the phone to my ear when it rings again. “What is it?” I snarl.
I’m frustrated with myself. With Sadie.
“Hello…Miles? Miles Bridger?” A woman.
“Yeah, who’s asking?”
“This is Rhonda. We…you know…hooked up a while back?”
Right. Rhonda. The text earlier.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Did you get my message from yesterday?’
Shit, yeah. “I did. I’ve been busy. What do you need?”
She clears her throat, a crackle through the phone line. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a week. I finally got someone from your shop to give me your cell number.”
“Oh? Who?”
“I think his name was Dave.”
Dave Wilson, one of my mechanics in New York. He’s fired. This is my private number, not somethinganyoneshares.
“What can I help you with, Rhonda?”
“Well, I—”
The door hinges squeak. Sadie steps into the garage and looks around, her gaze stopping on me.
In that damned black skirt, her bare legs going from here to heaven. Fuck!
“I have to call you back,” I say to Rhonda, ending the call.
Sadie takes a tentative step toward me. Then another. I don’t say anything as she makes her approach.
She tips her chin up when she’s right before me. “You’re being an asshole.”
I lift my eyebrows. Her words are completely unexpected.
“Me? I’m not the one who’s ashamed of us.”
“Have you told your brothers about us?”
Well, shit.
She shifts her hands to her hips.