By the time I finished locking away the last toolbox, my shoulders felt every minute of the day. Saturday had been relentless.
Motorcycles had rolled into Lawson Customs from the moment I opened the roller door that morning, customers had kept Ben running between service bays, Mia had answered what felt like a hundred phone calls, and I hadn't stopped moving long enough to think about anything except the next repair.
Busy was good. Busy meant the garage was healthy. Busy also meant I was exhausted.
I switched off the workshop lights one row at a time before lowering the roller door until only a narrow strip remained open. The evening air drifted inside carrying the scent of rain that hadn't quite arrived yet.
Across the street, the bakery had already closed, and the café owner was stac
