She's Got It Bad. Sarah Mayberry

found her. He’d come looking for her.

      “I get it. You bought Paulo’s painting and you decided to look me up. What’s wrong, Liam? Did you suddenly realize what you missed out on all those years ago?”

      He frowned. “I wanted to find out what had gone wrong.”

      Her chin came up and her eyes narrowed. “Wrong?”

      “That you needed to do something like that.”

      She shook her head, truly staggered by his arrogance.

      “Wow. Haven’t you become the morals campaigner. Let me save you the bother of worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

      “I don’t believe that.”

      She laughed again, a sound totally without humor. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or don’t believe. Who the hell do you think you are, walking into my life and telling me I’m wrong and looking at me as though I just offered you a blow job for a tenner?”

      “I was worried about you,” he said.

      She swore and stared at the ceiling as she struggled to keep a grip on her temper. Her lips curled into a sneer when she looked at him again.

      “Twelve years too late, baby,” she said. “Now, how about you get the hell out of my space?”

      He stared at her.

      “Go! I don’t want to see you or speak to you,” she said. To her great shame, hot tears burned at the back of her eyes. She held them there by sheer dint of will as they eyeballed each other.

      “Fine. But this isn’t over,” he said.

      She swore again, telling him exactly what she thought of him and where he could go, with bells on.

      He gave her one last, long look before turning on his heel and exiting. She reached for the countertop behind her and grasped the edge to stop her rubbery knees from collapsing. Then a more urgent need gripped her. One hand pressed to her mouth, she just made it to the restroom before she lost her breakfast to the toilet bowl.

      How she hated him. How she hated herself for still feeling anything for him after all these years.

      She ducked her head over the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Her eyes were guarded as she surveyed herself in the chipped mirror above the sink.

      For the first time in a long time, she felt a stab of the phantom pain that had haunted her for so long after the operation. She pressed a hand to her belly.

      A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

      “You in here, Zoe? Your tenderfoot’s arrived for his ten-thirty appointment,” Jake called.

      “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said.

      She rinsed her mouth again, then pressed her cool, wet hands against her cheeks.

      Screw Liam Masters. She didn’t give a damn about him or what he thought of her. She exited the bathroom and put on her brightest, sassiest smile for the scared teenager standing uncertainly in the doorway of her workroom.

      “Rodney. Great to see you. Let’s turn you into a piece of walking, talking art, baby,” she said.

      

      LIAM THOUGHT ABOUT ZOE all day at work. He thought about the look in her eyes when she’d first seen him and recognized him. He thought about her attitude, all sharp edges and defenses. He thought about the length of her legs and the fullness of her breasts, every detail of both on display thanks to her painted-on clothes. He thought about the tattoo on her neck, a striking overblown rose in shades of black and gray.

      Zoe. His Zoe, all grown up. And nothing like he’d ever imagined her. Certainly not happily married with kids.

      He couldn’t reconcile the woman he’d met today with the girl he’d known twelve years ago. It didn’t seem possible that the pure, innocent, generous spirit that had been Zoe could grow up into a woman so hard and edgy.

      He couldn’t afford to be this distracted right now. The workshop was operating at full capacity, and as always, there were fires to put out. Delays on the parts they’d ordered for a custom chopper that had a strict delivery date. Problems with the fit of the double-overhead engine one client had requested.

      He discussed options and solutions with his chief designer and lead fabricator, Vinnie. He wrangled suppliers. He put a rocket up one of the assembly teams to ensure they kept to schedule. At a quarter to seven, he shrugged into his leather jacket and headed for the door.

      “Where are you going?” Vinnie asked in surprise. It was a rare day when Liam wasn’t the last one to leave the workshop.

      “There’s something I have to do.”

      “I need to talk to you about this biker build-off comp. You still want to enter?”

      Vinnie sounded doubtful. Liam gave him a cuff on the shoulder.

      “I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but we have to keep pushing the PR.”

      Vinnie’s disgust showed on his face. “What a load of BS. Why can’t we just make great bikes like we always have? That’s how we got to where we are today.”

      “Don’t you listen to the marketing eggheads? We’re building a brand now, my friend,” Liam said on his way out the door. “I’ll sort out our entry first thing tomorrow. Make sure you reserve time in the production schedule so we can give it our best.”

      He palmed his car keys as he crossed the parking lot. Masters Mechanics had taken on a life of its own over the past three years. Through word of mouth they’d doubled, then tripled in size. Turnover was in the millions. He had more than thirty staff working for him, including a marketing manager. The days of simply shutting himself in the workshop and bending metal until it looked good to him were over. He had responsibilities, commitments. And—even though it had always felt like a dirty word, given his background—ambitions. Not world domination, but definitely he wanted Masters Mechanics to be the go-to shop for custom motorbikes across Australia and New Zealand. Definitely.

      The V8 engine of his vintage Mustang burbled to life as he turned the key in the ignition. He took the tollway across town to save time and was pulling up in front of the Blue Rose at a quarter to eight. The lights shone inside and he could see Zoe talking to a couple of customers at the front counter. Good. She hadn’t gone home. He’d taken note of the parlor’s opening hours when she’d kicked him out and taken a punt that she’d be working till close at eight. If she hadn’t been here, he would have simply come back another time.

      He watched her for a moment, the way she propped her hip against the counter, the way she tilted her head back and shook it to draw her hair away from her face. He’d wait until the customers left then go in to talk to her again. Try to keep things calmer this time, not get her back up. He winced every time he remembered asking her what had gone wrong. Zoe had always been proud. No surprise that she’d cut up at him.

      But he needed to let her know that if she needed help, he was there to give it. It was the least he owed her and her family.

      He smiled humorlessly. Yeah, he was a real freaking saint. Pity he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about that painting, about those shadows between her thighs, about the wealth of breast spilling over the top of her tank top even now as she leaned an elbow on the counter and sketched a design on a piece of paper. Her two potential clients were no doubt copping a decent eyeful. Probably thought all their Christmases had come at once. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

      It was nearly eight when the two men exited the parlor. He watched them break into laughter the moment they were outside, slapping each other on the back. One of them looked back over his shoulder at Zoe, and Liam knew without a doubt that they were talking about her, about what they’d like to do to her if they were lucky enough to get her naked.

      The car door was open before he could