Page 23 of Dirty Mechanic

“I plan to look at you every chance I get, Honeycrisp.” He taps the tip of my nose, and I realize my frontal lobe is not the only organ in danger of melting.

I swallow hard, clear my throat and blurt, “I found the lawyer’s letter and your grandparents’ will.”

He shifts, and I glimpse the race calendar pinned to the wall—ed circles and scrawled practice times filling the dates. The race carries the weight of this farm. And Derek carries the weight of it all.

He says nothing, just watches and waits.

So I ask the question that’s been burning in my chest. “What are you going to do about the note?”

His smile blooms slow, dangerous, and gorgeous. “Easy fix: you marry me, and I get every dollar in the trust.”

My heart stutters.

I whisper, “And the hard one?”

“Win the next race.”

“Derek— You can’t?—”

“Then marry me.”

“I can’t!” The words tear out of me, raw and desperate. I want to so badly, but I can’t. And I don’t want him to race. I’d die if anything happened to him.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not sure who I’m apologizing to.

I turn away, tears burning my eyes. He steps in front of me, lifting my chin with one finger. My hand tries to flee, but his grip tightens on my wrist. His thumb strokes my pulse, and suddenly, I’m aflame.

“I’m racing,” he says.

“You can’t.”

“I’m good,” he insists. “I’ve won before, and I can win again. With a small loan, we won’t need the will.”

“It’s not your driving I fear,” I choke out. “It’s what happens if you get hurt.”

“Same goes for you, Honeycrisp. I don’t like seeing you hurt.” His voice softens. “What happened in San Francisco?”

I look away.

He brushes circles on my wrist. “What has you so scared that you can’t look at me?”

My voice trembles. “My landlord. I’ve got to fix things before?—”

“Before you let yourself feel again? Before you let me in?” He trails his finger down my arm. “I want to help.”

As his words settle under my ribs, I shove him away with the most cowardly question I can muster. “Why do you blame yourself for Sarah’s death?”

His hand stills, and his face darkens.

“When you’re ready to share your demons, I’ll share mine. But don’t hide behind my mistakes.”

It lands hard. It lands right. God, I want to lean into him—meet that challenge head-on. Instead, I step back, forcing the tension to bleed out of my veins.

Across the yard, an old, beat-up pickup rattles over the gravel—its faded side-panel logo still reading Boone Mechanical Rodeo. I blink. That’s Marty Boone’s truck…and Caroline Gnatz behind the wheel.

Derek steps out of the garage beside me, wiping grease from his palms on a rag, eyes narrowing in surprise.

“Is that…”