Page 12 of Dirty Mechanic

Whiskey loosens my tongue, but it’s not like we’re strangers.

His eyes darken. “That depends. You offering a merger?”

“Let’s not skip the prenup, grease monkey. I’m barely in town.”

But my voice betrays me. A little too breathy. A little too hopeful.

He raises his glass, lazy and lethal. “To new beginnings.”

I tap mine to his, pulse hammering, betting on drink and ruin, both. Whiskey burns less, but not enough.

He watches me. He’s always been good at that, never pushing, just waiting.

Waiting until you break.

I break first.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I mutter. “I’ve survived fine on my own.”

He leans back, arms draped over the booth as if he owns the place. “Right. That’s why you walked ten miles from the station instead of calling for a ride?”

I bristle. “I needed the air.”

“Or an excuse not to face anyone.”

I glare.

He sips.

Of course, he’s right. I didn’t call. I couldn’t bear my brother’s disappointment or Emma’s tears, because it’s torture when someone actually gets your pain.

But Derek? He looks at me like I’m still me, which somehow hurts worse.

“You always ran,” he says quietly.

I flinch.

He sees it.

Damn him.

“I’m not running anymore. Not even to Alaska.”

His gaze sharpens. “So? Why skip your brother’s wedding?”

My chest caves in. There are too many ghosts in that chapel.

“Derek, please. Not tonight.” My words are a prayer against every nightmare I carry. “Let me decompress.”

I finish my whiskey in one pull. It’s the only way I stay sitting upright. “I should go.”

“To the Motor-Inn?” His brow lifts, half amusement, half a silent “You’re making terrible decisions again.”

“Yes, Derek. To the Motor-Inn. My parent’s house is in ashes and Eric's is full.”

He mutters under his breath, “Stubborn as hell,” then downs his drink and stands, stretching off this conversation like it’s a bad hangover.

“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That place hasn’t been cleaned since Bush was in office.”