Page 106 of Dirty Mechanic

“That’s a challenge, isn’t it?” I ask, tilting my face toward his.

His grin is all boyish sin. “You married me. You know what you signed up for.”

And maybe I do. Maybe I signed up for a love so fierce it scares me. For a man who makes me want to stop running even when I know the past is catching up.

Despite the handcuffs, the storm, and our legal disaster ahead, I feel safe up here. Safe, and warm, and just a little bit like we’ve found something no one else can touch.

“You signed up to marry a fugitive?” I ask

He laughs, low and warm, the sound settling into my bones.

“Let’s just say, we’re not Romeo and Juliet. We’re the version with a better lawyer and a stronger pulse.”

“I don’t think we’re quite out of the woods, yet,” I say quietly, because hope still feels dangerous.

“Don’t worry. Sounds like Caroline will come through and we’ll get your marriage to Mike annulled.”

I press close to Derek, letting his warmth shield me.

Downstairs, voices echo from the kitchen as Blake, Misty, and Derek’s parents prepare dinner. There’s laughter, the clink of mismatched plates, and the rhythmic thud of Walter Fields chopping carrots like the world isn’t falling apart outside.

Then comes Lena’s call: “Dinner!”

Followed by Blake’s familiar drawl: “Don’t make us climb those attic stairs and drag you down!”

Derek helps me up, and we sneak one last kiss before heading into the real world.

The kitchen glows with candlelight, accented by the gentle twinkle of battery-powered fairy lights strung across the cabinets. The storm knocked out the power about an hour ago, but it doesn’t feel like an inconvenience. It feels like a storybook. Outside, the rain has sluiced back in, and after yesterday’s postponement, the May Day race has been cancelled again—the track too waterlogged, and the wind too fierce to risk even a single lap. The smell of beef stew fills the space, steam curling from a chipped pot on the table, and there’s a mismatched lineup of dishes and Mason jars for glasses.

Walter Fields is carving thick slices of bread with an unnecessarily large hunting knife, grumbling about “losing a damn fridge full of leftovers if the power doesn’t come back.”

Misty’s corralling forks. Lena lights one last candle and mutters how the blackout gives the place ambience.

Blake leans against the fridge, arms folded, smirking.

“About time,” he says as we walk in. “I thought maybe you two were up there installing a skylight or something.”

Derek claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Nah, just checking the insulation. Annabelle gets cold if the draft’s bad.”

Blake raises his eyebrows. “She seemed warm enough this morning when you carried her into the kitchen with that smug look on your face.”

I press my knuckles to my mouth to hide the smile threatening to break loose.

Walter chuckles. “You boys still think women are impressed with horsepower and lifted suspensions. Lena married me when my car was barely running.”

“That’s because you told me you could fix it by Sunday,” Lena calls from the table. “Took you three years.”

“Exactly,” he says, settling into his chair. “She got a man who’s in it for the long haul.”

We all laugh. The food is simple and perfect. Stew thick with potatoes and carrots, and fresh bread slathered in too much butter. Blake and Misty bicker about the best feed for sows—again.

Walter sets down his spoon with a grin. “You know, the last time we had a blackout like this, Derek nearly torched the porch trying to rig backup power.”

Derek groans. “Dad?—”

“No, no, let me tell it,” Walter insists, grinning widely. “At the ripe age of twenty-eight, Derek thought he could wire a lawnmower engine to a car battery to keep the TV running for some big NASCAR race. Ended up lighting the carburetor on fire and singeing off half his eyebrows.”

Blake snorts into his drink. “You smelled like burnt hair for a week.”