“So, what exactly do you need help with?” Her curiosity chasing the suspicion out of her voice.
“Answering phones. Invoicing customers. Collecting payments and ordering parts. Talking to the fucking customers. All the shit I don’t have time for, but that keeps this place running.”
She bites that juicy lip of hers. “I haven’t worked in a garage before.”
I nod, knowing she’d have to be a fucking unicorn to have shown up in my driveway fully trained. “Have you done anything like it?”
She’s studying me, considering her answer. Considering me. My skin is prickling under the weight of her stare. “I started working in the office at my dad’s Dojo when I was twelve. I was handling the whole business side by the time I was fifteen.”
The breath whooshes out of me, and I nearly fold over. Thank fucking christ. Though honestly, she coulda told me she was a coke dealer, and I probably still would have hired her.
I’m that fucked up.
“Then you can do this job. I can show you our systems and teach you how to order parts. Hell, all the guys here can help with that. What do you think?”
She bites her lip and tucks her hair behind her ears before answering. “You really need the help?” I’m nodding before she even finishes the question.
“Yea, I do.”
“So, how would this work?” she asks tentatively.
I hide my smile. I’ve hooked her. Now to reel her in. “I’ll pay you the going hourly rate for an experienced shop manager. We’ll get you set up upstairs this morning, then you can start this afternoon.” I like the idea of knowing exactly where she is. That she’ll be safe. I know I'm inviting chaos into the office, but I can monitor the business side of things and find her fuck ups before things get too bad.
“Set up upstairs?” she asks with a raised eyebrow, suspicion lacing her words.
Tread carefully, Kade.“There’s an apartment upstairs. It’s been empty for a long time. I’ve crashed there once in a while when I was too tired to go home. It’s basic, more of a studio than an apartment. But it’s functional. And it’s safe.” It was a fucking refuge. For all of us.
Becca’s eyebrows are almost in her hairline. Her face red, arms crossed, fingers tapping on her arm. “I don’t need your charity.”
I shove my hands through my hair in frustration. Why is she so fucking difficult? Every other woman I’ve met jumped at my help. Hell, they asked for more, and more again.
Until they’d bled me dry.
Emotionally at least. I have way too much money for them to be able to take it all, though they did give it a damn good try.
“It’s not fucking charity. It’s a place to stay for a while. It’s an easy commute to work. And it’s sitting empty.”
She doesn’t look convinced, so I push her.
“What other options do you have, Becca?”
Crap. Her eyes are glassy. She swallows, and I want to take it back. Yes, I need her to stay, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“You’re right. I don’t have many good options.” She exhales. “But I won’t stay in a free apartment.” She raises her hand to cut off my objections. “I’ll pay fair market rent.” What the fuck? I don’t like it, but I nod my agreement as she continues, “Let’s do a two-week trial. If things don’t work out, we’ll go our separate ways.”
“A month,” I counter. “Two weeks is barely long enough for you to get your feet wet.”
“Three weeks.” I open my mouth to object, but she crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow. Her sharp, “Take it or leave it,” shuts me up.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s get your stuff unloaded and upstairs.” I hide my smile as I head toward her car, satisfied with the outcome.
Checkmate.
9
BECCA
Iwander around the apartment after the guys leave, running my fingers over the furniture as I explore. There’s a layer of dust on everything, but not nearly as much as in the office. This place is small but bigger than my place in Tokyo. And I shared that apartment with two other women. The bathroom was the size of a Porta-Potty. Mornings were a nightmare. The bathroom here is at least double the size.