Page 22 of Dirty Mechanic

I fold the decree again, sealing my escape like a secret pastry box—sweet with danger, and finally, mine. Relief rises, and the air tastes like the first bite of a perfect apple pie.

I pause at the bedroom window. A robin hops on the sill, its rust-red breast vivid against the pale dawn. It tilts its head at me, small and fearless.

“Let’s make this happen”, I whisper, words soft but unshakeable. It’s time to set my own fate.

I stand and smooth my dress, steel settling in my spine as a low, familiar growl rumbles across the yard. I look out the window and see Derek’s Mustang rolling back from the track.

I stuff the manilla envelope in my purse.

At the bottom of the stairs, the clang of Derek’s garage calls out like a siren’s song. I go outside and step into the morning-lit shop, ready to choose who I’ll become.

The scent of hot engine oil and morning dew drifts off the tools. The earthy tang still feels like home.

Derek’s garage hums with country music. His presence hangs in the air—earthy, honest, dangerous. It’s in the walls, the tools, and in the worn floor.

Inside, it’s dim, warm, and alive. And there he is.

His long legs stretch from beneath the ’67 Mustang, sawdust on his boots and temptation in every line.

I grip the doorframe, breath hitching.

Then I see Derek’s black truck parked around the driveway’s bend.

God, I remember that truck. More specifically, I remember pressing my back against its cool hood, his hands sliding up my thighs, his mouth murmuring my name like worship.

That was before everything went to hell: before I left, before Mike.

A grunt pulls me back, the scrape of wheels on concrete as Derek rolls out from under his other pride and joy. I forget how to breathe.

He stands.

White tank smeared with grease. Muscles slick with sweat. Hair tousled, jaw bristling with stubble. His shirt clings in all the right places. If sin had a dress code, this would be it.

He wipes his hands on a rag, oblivious to the way he just melted my frontal lobe.

"See something you like, Miss Honeycrisp?" His voice is low, warm, soaked in promise.

I cross my arms, mostly to stop my hands from wandering. “I—thought you might want some coffee.”

It’s never just coffee. My heart hammers because I’m standing here like a woman who wants to fall into his arms when every reason I should run pulses louder. If I pull him close, I’ll drag him under too.

He catches my gaze. Dark. Knowing. Undressing me with his eyes.

“No coffee pot in sight, darling.” He steps closer. “Try that again.”

His grin is cocky, and his eyes flicker with hunger.

My chest tightens. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be looking at him like this. Every second I stay, I dig myself deeper into something I can’t have him involved in. Not with Mike hunting me; not with this town watching. But God, when he looks at me like that, I want to forget every reason to run.

My pulse stutters, my thighs squeeze, and my dignity curls up in the corner, whispering, You’re screwed.

“You know.” He stalks forward. “That dress is a hazard.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Is it now?”

“Yep. Every time I look at you in it, I risk wrecking more than my lap times.” His breath runs warm over my cheek.

A smile tugs at my mouth. “Then maybe you should look away.”