Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(119)

“Sure,” he said, feeling grouchy but keeping his voice professional. “Twelve is great. Bring it in. I’ll take a look.”

“Mr. Wolfram,” asked Linus from Geek Squad as Cain hung up the phone, “you want Wi-FI, or were you plannin’ to use DSL? Or cable?”

Cain, who’d been a rebellious teen, then a naval firefighter, had very little knowledge of computers. “Uh, I need the Internet.”

“Yeah. But to connect: cable, DSL or Wi-Fi?”

Cain clenched his jaw. “If you were me, what would you do?”

“DSL or cable hardwired to your laptop, Wi-Fi to your assistant. Then you can offer it to your customers when they’re waitin’ on service.”

“Fine. Great. Do that.”

“The DSL or the cable?”

“Whatever!” yelled Cain, picking up the phone. “Wolfram’s DSL.”

“Oh, sorry. Wrong number.”

The caller hung up before Cain realized his mistake, and he groaned, slamming down the phone.

I have to get out of here for a few minutes.

Except that just then, as he was about to pull out his hair, the bell jingled over the door signaling that someone had walked into the showroom.

“Hello? Cain?”

And f*ck if every bit of stress from the morning rolled off his shoulders and faded away. She was here. He looked down at his clothes and made a face. He hadn’t been able to change from his coveralls back into jeans and a T-shirt, but he hoped like hell that she didn’t give a shit.

“Get them workin’,” he growled at Linus, who shrank back nervously, busying himself with the two computers.

Cain crossed the office and stopped in the doorway, looking across the showroom to where Ginger stood in a beam of sunlight checking out his favorite bike. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail, her perfect ass was tight and high in jeans, and her hand caressed the shiny chrome fender of a fully restored 1952 Zündapp K800. Cain took a moment to burn the image—way hotter than the hottest porn—into his mind before clearing his throat.

“You like it?”

She turned around, and her face broke into a smile. “It looks real old.”

“It is. Almost sixty-five years old.”

“Wow. It’s beautiful, Cain.”

He looked down at the early-model motorcycle. “I met this guy in Sweden . . . his name was Sven, and he was from Iceland. He restored old bikes, and when I finished riding across Europe, I headed over there to check out his shop. Ended up staying for a couple of months. That’s how I got the idea to open my own place.”

“Was this motorcycle his?”

Cain shook his head. “I found it in England and had it shipped to Sven’s shop. We restored it together. It’s worth a lot now to a collector; it’s in mint condition.”

She put her hands on her hips, tilting her head back to look up at him. “What happened to you?” She shook her head and laughed softly. “Sometimes you don’t even feel like the boy I grew up with.”

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing, princess?”

“Maybe,” she said, her voice soft and wistful, her smile warm. “You’re all grown up now.”

“Had to happen eventually.”

“I guess so.”

“Any complaints?”

She bit her bottom lip like she was trying to decide whether or not to ask him something. Deciding against it, she shook her head. “Nope.”

He knew it was brash, but he let his eyes drop to her lips and linger, then to her neck, to her breasts, full and firm in a light blue sweater. Lower, to her tight waist and lightly flared hips. Her legs in jeans, probably strong from a lifetime of riding. He let his gaze travel back up her body slowly, reverently, and found her brown eyes dark and wide when he met them again.

“You grew up too, Gin.”

She swallowed. “Any complaints?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

“Uh, Mr. Wolfram?” called Linus from the office. “I have a question about your cable plan, sir.”

Fucking Linus.

“Ready to work?” Cain asked Ginger.

She nodded, but he could have sworn he saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes, like maybe she was just as curious about where that exchange would have gone if they’d been alone, with plenty of time.

“I guess so.”

He showed her into the office and introduced her to Linus.

“Linus, Ginger. Ginger, Linus. He’s from Geek Squad. Obviously,” he muttered.

“Hey, Linus,” she said, offering scrawny, bespectacled Linus her hand.

Over her head Cain gave Linus a look that told him Ginger was absolutely, positively off-limits unless Linus was interested in getting beat up with his own laptop.

“Afternoon, miss.”

“Ginger’s the, uh, the receptionist, or, uh, secretary, so maybe show her how all this works, okay?”

A loud motor pulled into one of the drive bays, and a moment later the showroom door opened to a cheerful jingle.

Ginger flashed her eyes at him. “Should I go . . .?”

“No,” said Cain. “Stay here and get these computers workin’, okay?” He gestured to a mountain of unsorted paperwork. “And maybe make sense out of that? I’ll come check up on you later.”