“So I got here,” she said, annoyed. “And a guy called already. He wanted to know if you could look at a BMW road bike today. He’s in a hurry.”
“What time?” I asked, already glad to be talking about a subject I knew something about. My mind was running through the one or two jobs I thought we had for today, one of which was taking the scrap-iron to the recycler.
“Can you squeeze it in before lunch?” she asked. “There are only two repair-jobs for the morning.”
“Did he have any idea what was wrong with his bike?” I asked, pulling out a plastic chair and sitting down opposite her. I could feel her knees close to mine. I tensed and sat straight. Any accidental contact was dangerous.
“He said the motor was knocking,” she said immediately. “So I assumed that it’s the timing-chain.”
I stared at her. How the hell did she know? I tried to look unsurprised. “Maybe,” I said. Playing it cool. On the one hand, I was impressed. On the other hand, I felt annoyed. Again. I wanted to impress her, not the other way around!
“I think the repairs shouldn’t take more than an hour,” she guessed. “So, I reckon you can at least look at it by midday?”
“Maybe,” I said again, feeling frustrated. “I’ll call him later.”
“Fine.” She shot me a look.
“Thanks,” I muttered as she handed me his name and number. She didn’t look at me. I felt offended. Why was she acting so cold?
“I’ll add him to the schedule when you find out what time he’s bringing the bike in,” she said. Her face had gone from marginally surprised to completely expressionless in two minutes.
“Okay.” I nodded and, gripping the notepad from the phone desk, headed to my office—which was, for some diabolical reason best known to whoever first built the workshop, next to hers.
Shutting my office door, I grabbed my coffee cup and placed it under the small coffee-machine that lived on the table in the corner by the window. I made a double espresso. Then, I sat down and opened my laptop. I had to order some parts online, I remembered, for my brother, who was repairing the old Harley. While I scrolled down the inventory list, someone knocked at my door.
“Hello?” I called. My voice was hard, probably because I thought it might be Amelia.
“Hell, Carter,” Adam said, sounding surprised. “You sound angry.”
“I’m fine,” I said, draining the remains of my double-espresso. “Is something happening?”
“You could say that,” Adam grinned. “We’re just finishing the paint job. You should come see.”
“I want to,” I nodded. “Is Mark around?” I asked. “I need to ask him something.”
“He’s there.” Adam grinned. “If we’re lucky, Matthew hasn’t sprayed him with paint. He was teasing him mercilessly, and I think he’s itching to get him back.”
I laughed. “I can imagine. Let me come and see.”
“Great stuff,” Adam laughed. “If you can stop the Paint Wars…”
I was still smiling when I went into the shop. Despite Adam’s depiction of the brotherly battle, there was no fighting—either with paint or any other weapon-of-choice. Matthew was dressed in paint-spattered overalls, the paint gun still delivering paint in a fine haze all over the bike. Mark had a rag covered in polish in one hand and was busy cleaning another motorcycle. He saw me and grinned.
“Have a look! The new paint job is nearly finished.”
“Whew.” I whistled through my teeth. Matthew had stopped painting and was busy removing the tape that had protected some of the details. I stared at the results.
Black and shiny, the Harley was a thing of beauty. The guys had done a really nice custom job. Our customer was going to be really happy. The work was even more stunning than I’d envisioned.
“Well done, guys,” I whispered.
Matthew grinned. “It’s not finished yet,” he reminded. “We still need that special order chrome screw Mark ordered.”
“I did not order a screw,” Mark said, grinning as he said the word, emphasizing it to give full attention to the lewd double meaning.
I laughed. “You two. Do you ever stop?” I grinned at my twin brothers.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “When we’re concentrating on custom paint jobs.” He dropped the cloth on the workbench and slid the wrench back into place in the toolkit, shutting the lid firmly.
“Sometimes not even then,” Matthew pointed out, blowing out the end of the spray gun with paint thinner, to prevent the paint from blocking up the tiny holes. “Besides, we don’t get focused all that often. It’s easier now, though.”
“What’s easier?” I frowned.
“Well, everything,” Mark pointed out.
I looked at them, genuinely confused. Matthew laughed.
“Carter… we used to not know what day it was here, never mind what was on the schedule! Now, we have everything filed and neat, and the phone gets answered. Amelia has been a huge help around here.”
I felt oddly resentful. “We weren’t doing that badly before.”
“Nobody said we were,” Mark pointed out, giving me an odd look. “We just said it’s easier now.”
A strange silence pervaded the workshop. I had the uncomfortable feeling that everybody was on her side; I felt like an outsider in my own company. I looked around and noticed that Adam was furiously focused on packing the tools away. Matthew was cleaning the spray gun with renewed interest. Mark shot me a funny look, then started packing tools away with unnecessary concentration.
I felt pushed aside.
“I didn’t say anything against her,” I pointed out. “I just said that we weren’t failing before.”
“Nobody said we were failing,” Matthew said gently. “I just meant that I like working here more now that I understand what tasks I’m supposed to do every day. It is also nice to know that things are organized a bit better.”
“We feel better,” Mark confirmed. “And you have to admit, she really has made everything shipshape.”
“Yeah,” Matthew agreed. “And tidy.”
“Yeah! Look at the desk in there,” Adam said, pointing his head toward the office.
“It’s a model of efficiency,” Matthew agreed, smiling.
“I heard her on the phone earlier,” Adam contributed. “She’s a real natural.”
I shut my eyes as enthusiastic agreement followed. Everyone, it seems, was in love with the new receptionist, at least as far as her abilities as a receptionist went. I, however, wasn’t convinced. She was doing great work, for sure. But I didn’t like having her here. She got on my nerves, precisely because my nerves were sensitive to her. Everything about her put me on the edge of my seat with longing. And I didn’t like the feeling of being betrayed by my own body.
“Fine,” I said sullenly. “We’d better finish up the few remaining tasks for the Harley. It’s half an hour until lunch.”
“Lunch! Hooray!” Adam enthused.
“Can we have pizza?” Matthew asked.
“Yes. We’ve just about finished this custom build. We just have to remove the tape and install the few remaining chrome pieces, and we will be done. We always celebrate by having pizza for lunch,” Mark corroborated.