Protected by the Dangerous Biker Giant

Elara POV Someone had changed the locks on my workshop. I tried the key again because apparently humiliation was a skill I intended to master before breakfast. The metal scraped. The handle refused to turn. Behind the glass, the display bike I had spent six months restoring was gone. So was the tool cabinet. So was the reception desk. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and counted to five. Five was usually enough to stop me saying something expensive. It wasn't enough today. “Dylan, you absolute—” “Morning, Elara.” I turned. Mrs. Bell stood beside the neighboring bakery with a paper bag tucked under her arm. She looked from my face to the lock, then quickly at the pavement. Wonderful. Even the woman who sold me cinnamon rolls knew something I didn't. “Did you see a moving truck?” I asked. Her mouth tightened. “I thought you were relocating.” My stomach sank. “Why?” “A man came with a van. Had paperwork. Said you were opening somewhere bigger.” She hesitated. “Your business partner was with him.” Dylan. He had ignored my calls, but that wasn't unusual when he wanted to dodge a customer who had questions about delivery dates. I had spent far too long believing his explanations because the alternative was admitting I'd made a mistake about the person holding half my business. “What kind of paperwork?” “I didn't read it, love.” She shifted the bag. “Do you want me to call someone?” “Not yet.” I pulled out my phone and called Dylan. Straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. I sent him a message that began politely and ended in a way that would not impress a judge. Then I deleted the second half and sent it anyway. Where is everything? Call me. Now. Mrs. Bell held out the bakery bag. “You haven't eaten.” “I can't pay for that.” “It's a day-old roll, not a bank loan.” That almost made me smile. I took it and thanked her, although my throat was doing something ridiculous. A gray car stopped at the curb. A woman in a green work jacket climbed out, clutching a folder against her chest. She had the purposeful expression of someone who had rehearsed an argument during the entire drive. “Elara Voss?” “That depends. Are you here to deliver good news?” “No.” “Then my name is Brenda.” She didn't laugh. Fair enough. “I'm Tessa Ward. You were supposed to finish my father's motorcycle.” She looked through the window. “Where is it?” I glanced back at the empty workshop. The question I'd been refusing to ask myself became impossible to ignore. Dylan hadn't just taken tools. He had taken bikes belonging to actual people. “I've only just found the place like this.” Her eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe you had no idea?” “No. I expect you to be angry.” I stepped away from the door. “I'd be angry too. But I can't tell you where his bike is until I find out what happened.” Tessa opened her folder and pulled out an invoice. “Then explain this.” She held it up between us. I recognized our logo. I recognized our old address, our usual payment terms, and the model of her father's bike. What I didn't recognize was the extra charge at the bottom. “Priority storage?” I read. “We don't charge for priority storage.” “I paid it because your email said the repair would be delayed otherwise.” “What email?” She showed me her phone. The message had come from our official address. Dylan controlled the inbox, but I had access. At least, I thought I did. I typed the password. Incorrect. Of course it was. Tessa watched my face. “You really didn't know.” “I know you're owed a motorcycle and an explanation. I don't know much beyond that.” She put her phone away. “My dad restored that bike with my grandfather. It's not something we can replace by ordering another one.” That landed harder than her anger. “Let me photograph the invoice,” I said. “I'll write down everything you remember about the messages. And I'll give you my personal number so you can reach me directly.” “You're asking me to trust you.” “No.” I swallowed. “I'm asking you to give me a chance to find your dad's bike. You can decide what you think of me after that.” She studied me for a moment, then handed over the invoice. My hands had stopped shaking by the time I took the photograph. Having a task helped. It always had. A seized engine, a stripped bolt, a customer insisting a strange noise only happened on Tuesdays—give me a real problem and I could make a plan. This one had stolen the entire workshop. I asked Tessa to wait and called our landlord. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding entirely too cheerful for a man about to ruin my day further. “Elara. I wondered when I'd hear from you.” “Who authorized the lock change?” A pause. “Dylan told me the business was closing. He returned the keys.” “He doesn't get to close it without telling me.” “I have a signed notice.” “Signed by whom?” “Both directors.” I looked at the invoice in my hand. My name sat at the bottom beneath a neat, curling signature. Close to mine. Very close. Not mine. “Send me a copy of that notice,” I said. “I don't want to be caught in the middle.” “You already are.” A delivery van honked as it passed. I watched it disappear down the road and thought of every customer who had trusted me with a machine they cared about. I knew how to return their bikes if I could find them. I had no idea how to return their confidence. The landlord finally agreed to email the notice. I hung up and opened our business banking app. My balance was low enough to fit in a birthday card. I checked again, as if money might appear out of embarrassment. Tessa glanced at the screen before looking away. “I'm going to report the bike missing.” “You should.” That answer surprised her. It surprised me a little too. Part of me wanted to beg everyone for patience, to hold the mess together with promises until Dylan answered his phone. But the mess wasn't mine to hide. “Can I give you the other customers' numbers?” she asked. “A few of us have been talking.” “Please.” Her expression softened by a fraction. “I'm still furious.” “Get in line. I'm furious with me.” “Be more furious with whoever moved my father's bike.” “I can manage both.” She almost smiled. It wasn't forgiveness. It was enough to get us through the next five minutes. When she left, Mrs. Bell came across with a cup of tea and the expression of a woman prepared to ignore any protests. I sat on the curb because my legs had begun to feel optional. There were practical things to do. Save messages. Contact customers. Speak to the bank. Find out where the bikes had gone. I listed them on my phone, one below the other, until the screen stopped looking like a disaster and started looking like work. Then a new email arrived. Subject: Your confirmed parts order I opened it expecting another bill. Instead I found a purchase order for a shipment worth more than everything left in my bank account. The delivery address was a freight depot in Blackhaven. My hometown. I stared at the attached document. The buyer's name was mine. The authorization box contained my signature, or a convincing attempt at it. And the order had been approved through a personal guarantee. I scrolled to the bottom, where the supplier had printed the contact details of the person who placed it. Dylan's name wasn't there. Mine was. Someone hadn't simply emptied my workshop. They were still using me to buy things.