Revved (Axle Alley Vipers)(2)

“Jesus.” Shoving his keys in his pocket, he strode through the doors and into the workshop.

At this point he hadn’t decided on a game plan other than sizing up the competition, and that’s what they were. He could see that now. Yeah, they were small and they were out of the way, but they weren’t amateurs playing around. They knew their stuff, and if they were stealing his customers, they were a threat regardless of their size.

A guy in coveralls sat on a crate on the other side of the workshop, full welding mask covering his face, welding a patch of steel over a spot that had rusted almost all the way through. He knew this because he knew that car. The powder blue, ’55 Ford Customline had been in his garage a few weeks ago. He’d been the one to look it over and had done the quote himself.

Motherfucker.

He scanned the rest of the workshop, spotting an English Wheel, rollers, and various other tools you’d use if you did things old school. These guys worked hammer and file, from the ground up. These weren’t rush jobs.

They made their own custom panels, weren’t buying them in, and they were doing it well. Folks didn’t mind paying extra green for this kind of workmanship. It took longer, but if the end results were anything like he’d seen so far, the extra time would be worth it for a lot of people.

This, he hadn’t expected.

He looked around again, took in the place with fresh eyes, mind ticking over. Hell, excitement pumped through his veins, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

The determination he’d felt on the drive over shifted, becoming something else entirely.

As R.I.P. had grown, gotten busier, he’d moved away from this kind of detailed, hand-tooled work. They bought in rather than doing it themselves, to save time, to get more cars through the door. Not many did it like this anymore. This is what he wanted to bring back to his own business.

There was a hole in the market—he knew this, had known for a while—but training staff in this type of work took time, time he did not have. Man, if he could offer both options, this being higher priced and fully customized…

It took him all of ten minutes to decide he wanted West Restoration—and the staff that came with it.

The crackle and bright flickering light of the MIG welder stopped suddenly, and Reid turned to the guy across the room. He stood from the low crate he’d been sitting on and flipped the mask up, then pulled it off completely.

Long, fiery red hair fell free, thick and wavy. His gaze shot up and landed on the most exquisite face he had ever laid eyes on. Wide almond-shaped eyes, like fucking clear emeralds, met his and held.

A woman. An unbelievably hot woman.

She walked toward him, and his gaze was drawn to the serious sway of her slim hips, her long legs, and back up to what had to be an amazing rack hidden under those coveralls.

What in the hell?

Planting her hands on her hips, she stopped in front of him, tilting her head up so she could meet his stare. She was tall, but nowhere near his six-foot-four.

And yeah, there was no other word for it. She was stunning. Full lips, made to wrap around a man’s cock, high cheek bones, a perfect little nose, and those eyes, those bend-me-over-and-fuck-me eyes had his tongue stuck to the roof of his goddamn mouth.

“Yo,” she said in a loud voice. “You want something?”

Was she for real?

Her eyes narrowed, and she clicked her fingers in front of his face. “Yo, dude.” Then, shaking her head, lips twisted in disgust, she muttered, “Shit…seriously?”

The woman had the face of an angel, and he’d go out on a limb and guess she also had the cussing abilities of a sailor. He found that such a fuckin’ turn-on it wasn’t funny. With effort, he pulled himself together enough to smile down at her.

“What do you want?” she said slowly, punctuating each word like he was dim-witted.

Biting the inside of his cheek so he didn’t laugh, he arched a brow at her. “You work here?”

This earned him some serious eye rolling. “No, I get off on wearing coveralls in the middle of freakin’ summer.” With that she yanked down the zip at the front, slid them off her shoulders, and knotted the sleeves around her waist.

What she revealed was a skimpy, clingy, white tank, and the amazing rack he knew she had hidden. And when she crossed her arms—which were covered in bright ink from shoulder to wrist, flowers and leaves and birds all twined together beautifully—there was no way to miss the grease under her fingernails and smearing her forearms.

This woman was the physical embodiment of every fantasy he’d ever had….and that included the attitude.

He crossed his arms as well. “Nice way you talk to your customers.”