Page 105 of Dirty Mechanic

Annabelle goes still in my arms. Her heart kicks harder beneath my hand.

“We’ll stay with my parents,” I say without hesitation. “They’ve got the space. And Blake and Misty are already there.”

Caroline nods. “Good. I’ll let Emma know. And start pulling together everything for court. Photos, texts, that journal I’ve heard about but still haven’t seen. From what I hear, Mike has a few pages. We’ll need it all.”

“We’ll get it,” Annabelle says quietly.

Minutes later, we climb into the truck. She bundles up against the chill, pies and blankets tucked in the back. The rain has finally eased, leaving the gravel road slick and shining under the headlights as I steer down the rutted lane toward my parents’ farmhouse.

A wind chime tinkles faintly from the porch—the one Sarah hung there the summer she was sick. I took it down twice; and twice, my mother put it back up.

I used to hate that sound. Now it feels like a warning. Or maybe, a reminder.

If the court rules our marriage invalid, I lose everything. The trust. The land. That chime.

And what happens to Annabelle then? What happens to her bakery? To the home she just started building inside my arms?

The windows glow warm against the night, and I can already smell Mom’s stew through the glass.

We’re going to need more than shelter. If the marriage isn’t valid, we’ll need multiple lawyers and a solid strategy, along with every shred of proof she buried—every bruise she disguised, every lie Mike told.

And if I’m thrown out of the final race, which seems more likely by the hour, that land could slip through my fingers. Her bakery dream with it.

I’ve already lost one future. I’m not losing this one.

This isn’t just survival anymore. It’s justice.

Annabelle’s hand finds mine on the console, her thumb brushing my palm.

Dad’s old Ford is parked out front. He’s waiting on the porch, lantern in hand, boots tapping softly. Mom’s behind him, apron dusted with flour, hair pinned high. She hurries down the steps the second we climb out, wrapping Annabelle in a wool blanket before I can even reach for mine.

My dad doesn’t say anything—just sets a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, like he used to when I scraped my knees and didn’t want to cry. And I think, for a second, about how much of this would’ve broken me if I didn’t have them. If we didn’t have them.

This house doesn’t just hold memories. It holds us.

Inside, the fire crackles. The table’s set. Stew waits under a checked cloth, and the scent of fresh bread fills the room.

I exhale a breath and let my mother pull me into a welcome hug.

For a moment, the storm outside feels a world away.

The attic smells like cedar and old books, warmed by the last touch of sun through the peaked dormer window. Blankets are stacked on a full mattress in the corner, and fairy lights hang crooked across the beams, half of them burnt out, the other half glowing like lazy fireflies. The walls are slanted, the floor creaks with every step, and I can’t remember the last time a space made me feel so…safe.

Derek sits behind me on the mattress, knees bracketing my hips, hands working through my braid with careful fingers. I should be exhausted. I should be scared. But up here, with him wrapped in flannel and silence, I feel suspended in something rare.

He finishes tying off the end of my braid, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Not bad, huh?”

“For a man who works with oil and engine belts? Impressive.”

He grins. “I told you, mechanics are versatile. You think I can’t handle hair after tuning up a '68 Thunderbird with a seized crankshaft?”

I tilt my head back to look at him. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds very sexy.”

He leans in, voice dropping. “I could teach you. Engine basics. Or braid basics. I’m good with my hands.”

“That,” I murmur, “I already know.”

“Not exactly the honeymoon suite,” he breathes into my hair, “but there are no bars, the roof doesn’t leak, and the mattress doesn’t squeak unless we make it.”