Page 7 of Hello Trouble

HAYES

When I woke up the next morning and walked into my living room, Della was on my mind.

The disappointment in her face when I reminded her how most relationships went.

It was like waiting until Christmas morning to tell a kid Santa didn’t exist when they came running down the stairs to look for presents and found nothing underneath the tree.

A small part of me felt guilty. But wasn’t it better to know the truth and adjust to reality than waste your life waiting on a dream unlikely to come true?

It reminded me of my mom at home, dying. And everyone praying for a miracle when they all knew damn well she wouldn’t survive.

With a grunt, I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and then decided to spend my Sunday at the garage working on my 1969 Harley Davidson.

I’d spent the last six months slowly restoring her.

When she came to me, the paint was chipped, the leather cracked, and the insides just as much of a mess.

Now, she glimmered in all her candy pearl sea-green paint, and the dark leather practically gleamed under the shop lights.

The final part I needed was set to arrive tomorrow morning, and I wanted to make sure everything was ready for the install.

It was early enough in the day that the light still had a pinkish-blue tinge to it as I drove to the garage. Over the lobby windows, the sign shone against the pale morning. MADIGAN AUTO.

My lips twitched at the sign, at seeing my name there.

Even though I’d bought the garage over five years ago now, the sight of my name on the building never got old.

Most people thought I would never amount to anything, and this sign was a giant middle finger proving them wrong.

Proving my small group of supporters right.

With a sense of pride filling my chest, I got out of my truck and walked to the building. It took just a moment to unlock the door, go back to the garage, and roll out my pretty bike.

For the better part of the day, I tinkered with the motorcycle, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. As soon as the part was installed, she should be ready to go. I hoped.

When there was nothing left to do, I cleaned up the garage and went into the office to do some paperwork. The monthly payment for the business was due, and I wrote the check, thinking of my dad, who made it all possible.

When I had an opportunity to purchase the business, he cosigned the loan. He could have lost everything. Still could if things went south.

It kept me working harder than ever.

I snapped a picture of the check and texted it to him.

Hayes: Thanks Dad.

Within a few minutes, he texted me back.

Dad: Proud of you. See you at lunch tomorrow?

Hayes: It’s on me.

With any luck, I’d be riding my motorcycle there.

* * *

The next morning, I couldn’t help but drop all my projects to install the new part and see if she would run. If all the work I’d put in was going to pay off. I could feel everyone in the garage watching me to see the outcome.

So I gripped the new textured handlebars under my bare palms, shoved the bike forward so the kickstand would go back in place. Then I twisted the ignition key and used my full weight to kickstart the bike.

The engine turned once and died. But my heart was fucking soaring. That sound was better than any song.

Giving it my all, I kicked it again to the same result.

I could feel everyone holding their breath for me.

On the third try, the engine struggled to catch, turning over once, twice, and I twisted the throttle to give it more gas.

It roared to life, growling like the sweetest music in the world.

Whooping roared through the shop, my guys cheering for me as I kicked it into gear and slowly pulled out of the garage. A grin split my face. This was the best feeling ever. Fixing something broken, bringing it back to life.

A cool spring breeze ripped around me as I drove through the less trafficked areas, lifting my hair, rippling my shirt around my body, making me feel alive .

“Yeah!” I shouted, pumping my fist. “Hell yeah!”

If I was an emotional guy, I might have cried tears of joy. Instead, I steered her up and down the side streets in town, getting a feel for the way she handled before taking her out on the major highways and streets.

At first, I took it easy, but then I pushed her, seeing how far this rebuilt engine would go. She felt alive underneath me, responding to my touch and every shift of my body, like a woman would.

I lifted my wrist to check my smartwatch and saw it was about time to meet my dad and brother for lunch at Woody’s Diner.

Perfect timing—I could show them my girl.

Excited at the thought, I revved the engine and sped back into town toward the chrome-topped diner where my dad ate lunch every day. It was his social hour—and a chance to see the waitress who he insisted was only a friend.

When I pulled into the cracked blacktop parking lot, my ears hurt from the cool wind blowing by for the last hour or so and my eyes were watering, but I was grinning ear to ear.

I adjusted my shirt and walked through the doors, noticing most of the diners checking out my motorcycle through the window.

A feeling of pride seeped through me as I walked straight to the booth where my dad always sat—the one closest to the coffee pot. Probably so he could talk to Aggie without interrupting her work too much. A move I’d used myself (although on other waitresses).

Dad scooted over so I could sit by him, and Fletch nodded at me across the table. “Got the bike up and running?” Fletcher asked.

I grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Finally. She runs like a dream, too.”

“That new voltage regulator did the trick?” Dad asked.

I nodded, annoyed I had to wait so long while it was on backorder. “Finally got in this morning.”

Fletcher said, “My daughters aren’t allowed to ride on it outside of the driveway.”

“Fine,” I grunted. “But you never said anything about your pregnant wife. She’ll love it so much she’ll get pregnant twice.” I winked.

Fletcher went white, and my dad shoved me. “Hayes, don’t make me get a spray bottle out for you again.”

I smirked at him. “Wet T-shirt contest?”

Fletcher was composed enough to roll his eyes at me while Dad only gave an exasperated shake of his head.

But then Dad’s gaze snapped to a woman approaching the table.

She was Hispanic, curvy, with black hair broken up with streaks of gray.

Her smile crinkled her eyes as she approached.

“Some of my favorite guys!” I swore her eyes lingered a little longer on my dad, and he grinned back at her.

“Can’t beat the service here,” he said.

She pretended to flip her hair back, even though it was up in a ponytail. “You’re just happy I ignore the two-refill limit for you, Gray.”

Dad happily lifted his full coffee cup. If this sugar fest continued, I might gag. “I’ll take a coffee—black,” I told her. “And a burger with fries.”

Dad gave me a look.

“Please,” I said, putting on my most charming grin.

“Of course, baby,” she said, jotting it down in a notebook. I glanced out the window to check on my motorcycle. I bet the green paint caught the light just perfect this time of day.

But then I noticed someone touching the leather seat. Someone with bright red curls and far too colorful of clothes.

“The fuck?” I muttered, annoyance making my pulse speed up. “Excuse me,” I said before getting out of the booth to go outside and yell at Della. Didn’t her parents ever tell her to look with her eyes and not her hands?

When I pushed past the customers paying for their meal at the register and got to the parking lot, Della was already walking back across the street to the insurance office where she worked.

As I jogged toward my bike, I called out at her, “Don’t you know better than to lay hands on a vintage Harley?”

She turned in the middle of the dead Main Street, completely unbothered, and waved at me.

“Just left you a note,” she called, then she turned and walked the rest of the way to the front door.

And maybe I spent a little too long looking at her ass in that fluttery skirt, but wasn’t that my whole point? Look, don’t touch?

I reached my bike just as the mirrored glass door closed behind her and saw a hot-pink sticky note on the seat with something written in the same curly handwriting from the other day.

24X more people die riding motorcycles than cars. WEAR A HELMET. – Della

My eyebrows rose at the note. Seriously? Now that I had her number, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and fired off a text.

Hayes: Looks like someone cares about me. How sweet.

I looked at the building where she worked, even though I couldn’t see her inside. And soon a text came back.

Della: Don’t flatter yourself. Just trying to avoid the extra paperwork when your family files a claim.

I smirked at her message, then pocketed my phone and went back inside.