Page 13 of Dirty Mechanic

I roll my eyes. “Which one?”

“The first one.”

I snort against my will. The tiny, involuntary sound almost feels like laughter, but I’m too raw.

He watches with that unreadable look until he slips his hand into mine and whispers, “Stay with me.”

The words land softly, gentle, but with steel underneath.

I fake a smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

We both know that’s a lie.

He lets it go, as he always does, giving me space even when every part of him wants to pull me back.

I’m so ready to be pulled back, I just don’t know how to open my fingers.

We finish our drinks in a silence that feels more like home than awkward. Like slipping into a song you hum in your sleep. Familiar safety settles in my chest. For a heartbeat, the whiskey blurs the years, and it feels like no time has passed between us.

The fire Derek always kindled in me never burned out; it merely smoldered like a pilot light waiting for someone to flip the switch and set everything ablaze.

My heart crackles every time he glances at me—and he does it often. My skin remembers his hands mapping my body like Braille. My lips remember the way his mouth lingered, rewriting every one of our mistakes.

I shake the thought off like a bad habit.

Focus, Annabelle. Whiskey thoughts are not to be trusted.

The door to the pub swings open, cool air sweeping in like a warning. I straighten automatically.

I raise an eyebrow and quip, “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

He leans back in his seat, all lazy confidence and bad intentions. “Not sure I have to try, Honeycrisp—you’re doing a damn fine job on your own. Remember the last time we drank this much?”

Oh, I remember.

It ended with me bent over the tiny table in his rusty RV, struggling to catch my breath while he reminded me exactly how many ways he knew how to undo me.

My thighs clench at the memory. I hate how much he knows me.

I grab my suitcase, pushing up from the booth like a woman on a mission, even if my knees wobble like Jell-O in a windstorm.

“All right then, Honeycrisp,” he drawls, rising to his feet. “Let’s get you settled in with the spiders.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t stop him when he reaches for my bag. He can’t feel the true weight it carries. He doesn’t know what’s within. But Derek Fields is still playing the gentleman, and I let him light all the matches next to my emotional explosives.

Some battles just aren’t worth fighting. And some men are impossible to outrun.

Outside, the air is cool and quiet, the kind of small-town night where everything feels wrapped in cotton. Derek laughs softly as we head down the dusty path, until I wobble and fall into his arms. He loses his balance and we barely regain our composure without falling.

“Looks like we’re both walking home tonight. I’ll pick up the truck tomorrow.”

I pause. “I told you. I’m going to the Inn.”

He sighs like I just declared I’m moving into a swamp full of venomous snakes. “All right. Have it your stubborn way. At least let me walk you there.”

I want to argue.

I should argue.