Page 1 of Dirty Mechanic

If love were safe, I wouldn’t be coming home with a lie and a target on my back. My suitcase scrapes the dirt road, wheels bouncing like a shrapnel echo. I should’ve packed sneakers instead of stilettos and at least a shred of survival instinct. The plastic suitcase thuds against my shin with a measured beat, matching the pounding in my chest. I’m hours late, and every minute that ticks by feels like a second chance slipping through my fingers.

I pick up my pace.

Today marks Day One of Belle 2.0. Scratch that. Annabelle 2.0. Sparkling with commitment, rebooted, and emotionally available. Maybe even…married?

To a mechanic.

Not just any mechanic. Derek “grease-stained” Fields—king of engines, wrenches, and reckless wagers. Back when I thought glitter eyeliner was mysterious, he told me if we were both still single by Lords Valley’s centennial May Day, we’d get married.

We shook on the deal. Then we found other ways to seal it that night.

This year marks the ninety-ninth anniversary—one year shy of a century.

But guess what?

I’m single.

He’s single.

Why not?

I can almost hear wedding bells under the cherry blossoms. My new sister-in-law has nailed the timing this spring, and the ranch must look like a postcard. My brother and Emma are about to say, “I do,” and I picture Emma fussing over last-minute details, every petal and place setting.

I break into a brisk walk.

I’m five hundred feet away from freedom and three thousand miles away from a landlord from hell who installs hidden cameras in bathrooms. The universe might be a dumpster fire, but for once, she came through and gave me a backbone.

Not just for me. For Derek. For the man I’ve loved since I was old enough to understand what love meant. The same man I pushed away with every silent year I spent away.

I told everyone I left town for nursing school to become Lords Valley’s first nurse. But after I got my degree, I never practiced. Every exam room, blood stain, and broken bone brought me back to the night John Huntz kidnapped me and my brother. When white coats made me suffocate, I stashed my diploma in a drawer and buried myself in baking. Though pies couldn’t make me whole, flour and butter on my hands felt safer than patient charts.

Yet even as I buried myself in baking, the world back home never stopped turning.

In two weeks, Lords Valley will flood with banners and beer tents for the May Day race. I’m sure Derek’s entered again, as he has every year. When I lived back home, he spent every dawn wrestling that burgundy ’67 Mustang Fastback into submission, tweaking its fuel maps and cornering springs so it hugs the turns like a thoroughbred.

I cross the last bridge, round the bend and close the last quarter-mile. My parents’ farm unfolds like a living photograph. River-washed breeze, tinged with hay and wildflowers, brushes my cheeks as petals drift through the air.

My throat goes dry and my fingers tingle at the wrought-iron gate.

God, I’ve missed this place.

But mostly, I missed him.

I hit the gate—W-shaped flourish and all—and push through with a grin. Derek’s probably pacing by now, boots clicking on the brick path, ready to throw down a wedding right after my brother and Emma’s vows. That would be so him: zero patience, all heart.

The thought makes butterflies riot in my stomach.

Except, I’m late. And they probably already said their vows.

If Derek saw me now, heels deep in soft grass, he’d laugh. Or maybe pull me into one of those rough, grounding hugs that smell like motor oil and home.

My phone buzzes. Derek’s name lights up the screen like a lifeline, until leaves rustle behind me. I freeze, and the call goes to voicemail.

No.

“Going somewhere, Belle?” His voice is an icicle down my spine. The taste of copper builds on my tongue.

My legs lock and my gut hammers to run.