The tiny crack gave them something real to address.
And the girl holding a pink toolbox had earned their attention.
Ace looked back at Emma.
“You know, when you first walked in, I wasn’t sure what to think.”
She gave him a cautious smile.
Several mechanics laughed.
Ace’s expression softened.
He glanced at the men who had mocked her.
“Some of us weren’t exactly welcoming.”
The mechanic who’d made the watering-flowers joke shifted his weight.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
That was probably a little unnecessary.”
Emma looked toward him.
He laughed at himself.
For a brief moment, the garage felt lighter.
But Ace continued watching Emma.
Something about her manner kept troubling a distant memory.
It wasn’t her age.
It wasn’t the pink toolbox.
It was the calm way she approached the problem, the patience with which she listened to the engine, and her refusal to make claims she couldn’t support.
She seemed to understand that finding the truth was more important than looking intelligent.
He had known another mechanic who worked that way.
Someone from years earlier.
A man whose hands were almost always stained with grease.
A man who treated motorcycles as machines worth understanding rather than objects to be conquered.
The memory remained just beyond reach.
Until Emma turned slightly toward her toolbox.
Her oversized work shirt had shifted while she was leaning over the Harley.
The fabric was faded from repeated washing, and the sleeves were rolled back to keep them clear of the work.
Ace hadn’t paid much attention to the shirt before.
He’d been too focused on the motorcycle.
Now he noticed the embroidery across her chest.
It was worn but still readable.