She pulled into the pockmarked driveway in front of the Dean’s Garage and took another calming breath. She could do this. This morning’s glimpse of her adolescent crush had made her temporarily forget the savvy, chic businesswoman she’d worked hard to become.
She would do what she did best—talk business and bikes. Asa Wilder wouldn’t get under her skin and Sebastian Kosta, the wealthy owner of the relatively new Kosta Ironworks and Custom Designs in the shop next door, would be so dazzled that—successful negotiations or not—she might end up convincing him to invest in Darcy’s crazy scheme to open a DD4 nightclub in San Francisco.
Delilah turned off the engine, grabbed her case and slid out of the car, straightening the slim red halter dress that stopped above her knees and adjusting her favorite black leather bolero jacket Drew had purchased for her from some fashion show she’d attended a few months ago. It made her feel tough and incredibly feminine at the same time. It also threw men off.
Exactly as it was meant to.
At first glance, they always assumed Delilah Dean knew more about Gucci than Harley. The last thing they expected was that a woman who dressed like Jessica Rabbit could talk valve adjustments and precision camshaft tolerance while still managing to balance on her killer stilettos.
Her father could talk shop with the best of them—he was the customer’s friend. Delilah didn’t have that luxury, and she wasn’t above using a little distraction to give her an advantage in this male dominated industry.
She also wasn’t above giving a “Look at me now—aren’t you sorry?” show to the mechanic who could always make her knees buckle with nothing more than a lazy smile.
Her heels efficiently evaded the loose gravel and oil stains that dotted her path to the clean, brightly lit office connecting Asa’s space to the refurbished Ironworks building.
It was jarring. Where the office and Kosta Ironworks began, the parking lot was perfectly paved, the cars were all new and expensive and the building was practically shimmering in the sun.
Dean’s Garage seemed sad and broken down by comparison. Even the sign above the door was so faded one e and the r had all but disappeared. She was glad her father had decided not to come, and a little ticked that Asa hadn’t let them know anything needed repair. She started thumbing through her mental fix-it Rolodex before stopping herself. There was no point. By the end of the month this wouldn’t be a Dean family problem anymore. The shop would be sold.
She pulled open the glass door and walked into the middle of a heated discussion that was taking place next to what looked like a top-dollar cappuccino machine.
“You do not.”
“Not to belabor the point, but I do.”
“Major, I’ve known you for thirteen years. If you’d had work like that done I would know. Could you pass the chocolate shavings shaker?”
Delilah’s eyebrows rose and she bit her lip hard to keep from laughing, resisting the urge to run up to the two older bikers who didn’t look like they’d aged a day since she left. The retired Major and the reformed felon, Angel had met at her dad’s garage and instantly bonded over their love of tinkering with bikes and arguing over nothing.
She’d had no idea they also shared a fondness for expensive coffee.
Angel spotted her standing by the door and his eyes narrowed as he stroked his long, salt and pepper beard. “I think we should finish this discussion another time. Look whose here. Our little Del.”
The broad shouldered man with a severe crew cut and a perfectly curled and waxed handlebar mustache squinted in her direction. Clearing his throat, he lowered his voice and said, “No, Ronald. That must be another one of the Greek’s lady friends. I doubt that girl’s been dirty a day in her life.”
Angel rolled his eyes. “First of all, she can hear you, you old twit. Secondly, never call me that again. My name is Angel. It will always be Angel.”
Delilah’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as the Major lifted one eyebrow and sniffed. “That’s not what your mother said,” he murmured just loudly enough to be heard. Then he took a step closer to Delilah. “Is he right, young lady? Are you little Del Dean? I could have sworn you had brown hair.”
Delilah sent him a pleased grin and lifted her hand to her long blonde waves. “Only after a day in the garage with you two.”
Angel let out a whoop, set down the petite cup that seemed so out of place in his stony hand and strode over to her, his arms wide. “Welcome home, girl!”
The Major put out one strong arm and held him back with apparent ease. “Take a breath, Ronald. Look at yourself. Now look at her. You’d need two showers and a set of fresh clothes before I’d let you anywhere near her.” The Major bowed his head gallantly. “Ms. Dean, we are honored you’ve graced our humble establishment.”