Page 2 of Come Ride With Me
“Can I help you?” he asked, grabbing a cloth he always kept hanging on a belt hoop of his work pants.
She’d been looking around the shop as if she were genuinely interested in the stone-gray walls and bike parts scattered about. Hip Hop music blared from the overhead speakers because Rock had arrived first this morning and he loved Drake like the dude was his long-lost brother. Her gaze had scanned just about every corner of the place before finally landing on him. Soft green eyes, long natural lashes, and full brows—not arched in that crazy dramatic way some women were wearing these days. She didn’t belong here. Nash knew that as surely as he knew he was getting turned on by what he was certain was an insurance salesperson.
“My name is Mica,” she said, her voice clear and confident. “I was sent by Mr. Finksburg. I’m the accountant.”
Shit!A damn number cruncher, with a sexy as hell accent, was giving him a hard on. That was worse than if she had been an insurance salesperson.
“Nash Waters.” He managed to say after wiping his hands as clean as they were going to get and extending one to hers for a cordial shake. “I’m the shop manager.”
She looked at his hand, then up to his face, down to his hand again, all before shaking her head and taking a step forward. When she grasped his hand Nash let out a slow, almost steady breath. She had a strong grip to go with her confident voice and interesting mouth.
“Nice to meet you, Nash,” she said, before pulling away slowly.
She had soft hands that moved over a keyboard all day. Nash clenched his rough and calloused fingers at his sides.
“Need me to call Earl? I think he’s in early today,” Webby, one of the best free-hand painters and airbrush artists on the east coast, yelled from the back end of the shop.
“Nah, I’ll take her around to the offices.” Nash volunteered without looking back at Webby. “This way,” he told her before turning and walking toward the glass sliding doors.
Bellamy Motors was on the corner of Haven Drive and Nunnery Street, in Destine, a medium-sized town located just outside of Alexandria. The back end of the building—where the lovely Ms. Mica, had come in—was the shop side. In other words, Nash’s territory. There was a showroom facing the Haven Drive entrance which displayed most of the bikes they had for sale. Another rectangular shaped bullpen area was where the sales staff were seated and upstairs were the business offices, where Earl Banyon, the general manager and Mickey Arkin, the finance manager were located. Nash figured that’s where the numbers lady needed to be.
“What do you do back here?” she asked just as the automatic doors that separated the shop from the hallway leading to the showroom opened and Nash walked through.
“That’s the shop. We disassemble, repair, reassemble, and paint the bikes there. Out here,” he told her because he sensed there would be another question coming shortly. “Is the showroom where we spit-shine and showcase the bikes in the hope that some lucky rider will pay the stated price. Back there are the salespeople, they sell the bikes. And up here is for the fancy ones, like you.”
The moment he’d finished that sentence Nash chanced another look at her. He was having a hard time trying to pinpoint the one thing that had completely captured his attention about her. Because there were just so fuckin’ many things that had slammed into his gut like a bulldozer. Her skin was this luminous honey hue, her eyes, and lips while startling in their own right, sort of paled in comparison to the sprinkling of milk chocolate-colored freckles over her entire face. For as cool as he thought any one of those attributes may have been on their own, together they took his breath away.
“I’m not fancy,” she said.
“Your accent sure is.” The words came before he could think to stop them.
She blinked as if he’d said something wrong, or possibly offensive. Her recovery was quick and one end of her mouth tilted like maybe she was going to smile. She didn’t. But she did reply, “I’m from Paris.”
Nash nodded. “I don’t think I know of a fancier spot than Paris.”
She shook her head and then shrugged. “I’m just the accountant.”
No, Nash thought, she wasn’t “just” anything.
“Up these steps back here, that’s how we get to the business offices. I suspect you’ll want to speak to Earl Banyon, he’s the general manager,” he said, his mouth already feeling dry.
Nash didn’t normally do this much talking at work, or ever for that matter. He wasn’t what some might call a ‘people person’, yet here he was acting as her personal guide, just because her smooth looking skin and those wide green eyes had reached out and grabbed him by the balls the second she walked into his shop.
“I thought, ah, it was my impression that Bellamy Anderson ran this business himself,” she said.
Nash stopped at the top of the stairs, turning slowly to see her looking up at him from the step below. He hadn’t heard anybody call Bell by his full name in years. Everyone knew and loved him as Bell.
“He was here every day. His every hope and dream in the world is right here with these bikes and his customers. HewasBellamy Motors. There will never be any question about that,” Nash stated, his chest all of a sudden tight with emotion.
The funeral had been two months ago, the grieving should have been over. He should have been back to normal. Then again, nothing ever happened as it should have. If it did, Bell would still be alive and Nash…well, he wouldn’t be standing here right now realizing how good this little accountant smelled.
“Earl takes care of the paperwork. He makes sure all the bills are paid and all the customers are paying. Bell liked being on the floor, selling to his people as he used to say. That’s where he was at his best, matching the bike to the rider and watching them ride off into the sunset.”
“That’s a very romantic way to put making a sale,” she commented.
Nash couldn’t help but ask, “What’s the matter, ma’am? You don’t like romance?”
He thought she blushed. It was a little hard to see through the freckles. But he was fairly certain, her cheeks darkened a bit at his words. And that had a snippet of pride that he could get a reaction from the prim and proper miss, soaring through his chest.
