Chapter 7
A faint, private amusement flickered across Wyatt’s mouth.
If she only knew that the “decoy” garage currently sitting on 11th Street had been hastily acquired twelve hours ago by a blind Brandt Global LLC holding company, staffed by two ex-military intelligence operatives posing as grease monkeys, and fitted with six dummy sedans.
“It’s dirty,” Wyatt warned, leaning against the counter. “Cold concrete. Grease everywhere. Not exactly an analyst’s boardroom.”
“Wyatt, my father started this family in a machine shop with three broken windows and a kerosene heater,” Piper said, her voice softening with fierce pride. “I grew up doing my algebra homework on grease-stained tool chests. I can handle a Queens garage. Besides…” She stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the crooked collar of his flannel. “We’re a team for thirty days, remember? I don’t leave my partners to fight loan sharks alone.”
Her fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck.
Wyatt’s breathing stalled. Up close, the faint scent of her skin—lavender soap and cold morning air—cut clean through his defenses. He looked down into her wide, clear amber eyes, struck once again by the absolute purity of her nerve. Most people in his tax bracket hired small armies to shield themselves from discomfort; Piper was ready to stand on freezing concrete with legal pads just to protect an ordinary mechanic’s livelihood.
“All right,” Wyatt murmured, his voice dropping into that low, textured register that sent a sudden ripple of warmth down her spine. “Let’s go to work, Mrs. Brandt.”
***
Brandt Automotive—or rather, *B&T Precision Repair*, as the hastily mounted rusted tin sign read—was nestled between an abandoned freight depot and an iron foundry near the rail yards of Long Island City.
Inside, two massive hydraulic lifts held an old Ford pickup and a battered Chevy. The concrete floor was appropriately stained with decades of dark hydraulic fluid, and the air smelled heavily of WD-40, cold steel, and stale tobacco.
At a wooden workbench in the back, a burly man with silver hair and forearms like cured hams—a retired contractor named Briggs, currently earning an obscene consulting fee to play shop foreman—glanced up.
“Morning, boss,” Briggs rumbled, then caught sight of Piper and immediately wiped his greasy hands on a blue shop rag. “Ma’am.”
“Briggs, this is Piper,” Wyatt said, keeping his tone perfectly casual. “My wife.”
Briggs gave an approving nod that lingered just a second too long on Piper’s fierce, professional posture before returning to Wyatt. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brandt. The lift on bay two is primed. That alternator on the Ford is fighting back.”
“I’ll take a look,” Wyatt said.
For the next two hours, Piper set up camp in the small, glass-walled office overlooking the bays.
She plugged her laptop into a dusty power strip, spread her color-coded folders across a scratched metal desk, and went to work. But every few minutes, her eyes inevitably drifted toward the open garage bay.
Wyatt had stripped down to a dark ribbed thermal shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal corded forearms laced with prominent veins. He was leaning under the hood of the truck, his broad back flexing beneath the fabric as he wrenched a stubborn bolt free. Sweat glistened faintly at the base of his neck, and a smudge of carbon dust ran along his high cheekbone.
There was something undeniably mesmerizing about the way he moved. He didn’t work with the frantic, hurried clumsiness of someone struggling; he worked with an effortless, predatory economy of motion. Every movement was calm, deliberate, and devastatingly precise.
*He looks like a Greek statue carved out of granite,* Piper thought, her cheeks warming suddenly. *And he’s legally your husband for the next twenty-nine days. Get your head in the game, Holloway.*
She dragged her eyes back to the spreadsheet on her screen—the forensic breakdown of Landon Pierce’s offshore routing accounts.
Her father’s corporate charter was open in a second tab.
*Section 9, Paragraph 4: In the event that the direct heir enters into a legally binding marriage prior to the attainment of their twenty-sixth year, the entirety of Class-A voting shares held within the Founding Trust shall bypass testamentary administration and vest immediately into the sole custody of said heir upon public declaration.*
Piper leaned back, her pulse thumping against her ribs.
Today was her twenty-sixth birthday.
Tonight was the annual Holloway Foundation Gala at the Emerald Ballroom of the St. Regis—the premier society event of the winter, where Beatrice planned to announce the formal merger between Holloway Logistics and Pierce Capital before Manhattan’s financial royalty.
If Piper showed up alone, Beatrice would have her escorted out by security and invoke the temporary conservatorship clause.
But if Piper showed up with a certified copy of her marriage certificate and presented it before the board of directors… Beatrice’s entire house of cards would collapse in public.
A sharp screech of high-end ceramic brakes outside the bay shattered the morning quiet.
Piper snapped to attention.
Through the grimy front windows of the shop, two vehicles had pulled onto the gravel apron, cutting off the exit. A silver Bentley Continental and an obsidian Maybach.
The chauffeur stepped out of the Maybach, opening the rear door.
Beatrice Holloway emerged first. She wore a tailored camel-hair coat with a white mink collar, large tortoiseshell sunglasses, and four-inch Louboutin heels that clicked disdainfully against the dirty concrete.
Behind her stepped Landon Pierce.
He was dressed in an impeccably pressed three-piece charcoal suit, a silk pocket square, and an expression of profound, aristocratic disgust, holding a monogrammed linen handkerchief over his nose as if the very air of Queens were infected.
Piper’s stomach turned to ice, followed immediately by a surge of molten adrenaline.
She stood up from the desk, grabbing her leather folder, and stepped out of the office into the main garage just as Beatrice and Landon crossed the bay threshold.
“Good God,” Landon sneered, his nasal voice echoing off the corrugated iron ceiling. “The stench of petroleum is enough to give one lead poisoning. Is this really where you’ve crawled to, Piper?”
Wyatt slowly slid out from beneath the truck.
He didn’t drop his wrench. He held it loosely at his side, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. His hazel eyes swept over Landon and Beatrice with an expression so flat, so utterly devoid of fear, that Landon took an involuntary half-step back before catching himself.
“Beatrice,” Piper said, stepping squarely into the open space between the intruders and Wyatt. “You’re trespassing on private commercial property. Leave before I call the local precinct.”
Beatrice lowered her sunglasses, looking around the grimy repair shop with curling lips.
“Private property?” Beatrice chuckled, a brittle, venomous sound. “Darling, this pathetic shed isn’t even worth the value of the tires stacked against the wall. And you—my late husband’s only daughter—hiding behind a grease monkey who smells like unrefined diesel.”
Landon stepped forward, adjusting his cufflinks. He looked at Wyatt with open mockery, looking him up and down like a piece of spoiled meat.
“So this is the prize,” Landon said, his voice dripping with condescension. “The great rebellion. You traded a forty-million-dollar seat at my side for a man who scrapes rust off mufflers for minimum wage.”
