By Thursday morning Lawson Customs was busier than it had every been.
Motorcycles lined the parking lot before I’d even unlocked the roller door, Mia alaready had a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the office and Ben was sweeping the workshop floor while quietly repeating the service schedule to himself.
He looked up as I walked downstairs.
“Morning.” Ben said.
“Morning.” I said.
“I made a list.” He said.
I accepted the clipboard he handed me and every motorcycle waiting outside had been written down in near handwriting, complete with customer names, phone numbers and the problems they’d described over the phone.
“You’re becoming organized.” I smiled.
“Mia threatened me with color coded folders.” He siad.
“That sounds terrifying.” I said.
“It really was.” He said.
I laughe
