Ace could be stubborn, impatient, and difficult to convince once he’d made up his mind.
But he had never confused confidence with intelligence, and he knew that people occasionally noticed things experts overlooked.
Even so, the situation was absurd.
A fifteen-year-old girl.
A pink toolbox.
Seventeen mechanics who couldn’t solve a problem.
And a motorcycle that had begun to feel like a personal enemy.
Ace reached toward the ignition.
“One more time,” he said.
The mechanic beside the workbench groaned.
“You’re seriously doing this?”
Ace didn’t look at him.
“She asked me a question.
I’m giving her a chance to answer one.”
That ended the argument.
At least temporarily.
Emma set her toolbox on an empty section of the workbench, carefully positioning it away from the scattered metal components.
The case had a few scratches and dark marks near its latches, suggesting it had been used rather than carried merely for appearance.
A small smear of grease marked the cuff of her oversized work shirt.
Her jeans were plain, and her hair had been pulled back to keep it away from her face.
Nothing about her suggested she had come to impress anyone.
She looked nervous enough to know the adults were judging her, but not nervous enough to leave.
Ace noticed her hands.
They were steady.
“Ready?” he asked.
Emma stepped a little closer, stopping at a safe distance from the motorcycle.
Ace turned the ignition and pressed the starter.
The engine caught immediately.
Its familiar deep rumble filled the garage, reflecting from the concrete floor and metal workbenches.
For one brief moment, the Harley sounded perfectly healthy.
Emma lowered her chin.
Not to the volume.
Not to the impressive rhythm of the custom engine.