Lucky Baby (Crescent Cove 11)

One

This moment was perfection.

The suspicious part of me wondered if it was too perfect.

Leaves crunched under my boots as ghostly swirls of steam rose from my oversized mug of coffee. The hazelnut blend, with whatever secret ingredient Brewed Awakening’s mistress had added, was my favorite way to start the day. Even if I never quite got the milk to coffee ratio magic Macy seemed to do so effortlessly. However, it was my coffee blend alone.

That thrilled me more than it should, but I could own it in my own head, if nowhere else. Since my particular genius turned into one-of-a-kind car and motorcycle parts, it was only right I got a kick out of someone else’s talents when it came to my coffee. Especially considering the liquid gold was my soulmate.

Coffee had kept me alive even when food had been scarce. Being a woman in the car business wasn’t for the faint of heart, and I’d had to claw my way up to a living wage before I’d been able to start calling my own shots. Fast forward ten years—with quite a few crash and burns—and here I was, making an actual home in a little nowhere town as quaint as a postcard and just as family-centric.

Maybe a little too family-centric. I was tempted to get an IUD and birth control. My doctor had actually laughed when I’d tried—until she looked at my address.

Crescent Cove was legion when it came to babies.

So not in my ten year plan, thanks.

I flipped my collar up on my battered motorcycle jacket against the wind racing off the water. The sun peeked from Crescent Lake’s still surface, turning the sky gold and misty blue. The air had a chilly bite that warned of the long winter coming, but the burn in my lungs made me smile over the rim of my mug. It was almost as good as the cigarettes I’d miss until my dying day.

Okay, not as good, but it was definitely invigorating.

I picked my way across the uneven spots of my lawn—my lawn. God, that felt good to say. Apartments and hand-me-downs or thrift finds had been my life for twenty-six years.

A year ago, I would have been happy with that. I never stayed in one place long enough to care about what I plunked my ass on or laid my head on at night as long as it was clean. I’d lived a transient life by choice. Job in Seattle? Yep, I was there. Car show in Miami? Sure, I could make it. Sturgis Rally? Hell yeah, I’d be there.

Now I was one-third owner in an actual company. People came to me now instead of me doing guest spots in various shops. I’d been in demand before I was legal to drink. I had an uncanny ability to fabricate just about anything. If a client dreamed up something, I could pluck it out of their mind. For years, I’d worked with any and all machines at my fingertips to make it happen. Now I had my own fabricator I’d created, down to the proprietary specs.

And I’d patented it. I’d learned the hard way that loyalty was for dreamers, not for the cold hard reality of business.

That lesson had been tattooed on my back with a blade, leaving a bonus scar that I hadn’t seen coming.

But those moments had only made me stronger. Now I could charge whatever the hell I wanted for jobs. And I did. Shamelessly. I even had a company begging to license my machine. They hadn’t quite come up to my number yet.

To be fair, I had a disgustingly high number in my head. I had a feeling Ramsey Inc. would get there eventually. He had a serious hard-on for Hilda, my baby.

I had a waiting list three years out to get time on my bench. They were all curated projects suited to me. I said no to people all the damn time. Did I feel bad about it? Nope. I’d worked hard to create a name for myself since I was sixteen years old.

And now I had two workshops I could outfit however I wanted.

Part of my contract with Dare and Gage Kramer had included absolute autonomy when it came to how I worked. Unique jobs were eighty percent of our income at Kramer & Burns Custom, but Dare had a special affin

ity for the town so we still took care of the locals.

The Kramer boys had been involved in NASCAR in a former life. Now they were happily settled with kids, but our combined reputations had resulted in a constant stream of clients and word of mouth that had only grown with each car that rolled out of our bays. Our customs had blown up so much we were looking to take over the building behind the garage to extend the space and hire on a few general mechanics. But getting Dare to move on anything was like asking a glacier to put some hustle into it.

Mostly I didn’t care about that part of the company. I was more involved with the specialty projects than the everyday labor of tows and oily fingers. Unless you asked me to rebuild a British motorcycle, then I was more than willing to get my overalls on.

Like the sweet ’69 Triumph Bonneville sitting in my home garage right now. I’d spent the last few months acquiring the perfect pieces, tools, and even a lift to make my home garage as effective as the one in town. To be truthful, it was the only thing I’d actually completed in my fixer-upper farmhouse.

My bedroom was as bare bones as a clichéd bachelor pad. It included my mom’s old dresser my dad had shipped me, a mattress, and the badass four poster bed. Admittedly, I’d overpaid for it from August Beck, a local carpentry artist. It was a damn work of art, and I didn’t mind paying for the unique, especially since sleeping was my favorite hobby.