Page 25 of Dirty Mechanic

Caroline digs into her slice and rubs her belly. “Baby Boone’s forced me into nesting mode. I baked ‘til dawn.”

I shove a second bite into my mouth. “Thank you for bringing this by. It’s delicious,” I say, savoring the warmth. It’s not my apple pie, but it’s comforting.

She beams. “Welcome home, Annabelle.”

I glance at Derek—pie-smudged grin and all—and know I’m exactly where I belong. His eyes drop to my lips, and in that flicker, it feels like he’s memorizing my mouth. My pulse spikes as he brushes a stray crumb from my chin with the pad of his thumb.

Between Caroline’s pies and her unexpected goodwill, I almost believe I can have both a fresh start and a family, on my terms. She talks about her practice in town, and I try to update this new Caroline in my brain.

Derek lingers close on the seat, hand drifting to my waist. “Are you still practicing?” I gasp, heat pooling where he touches me, and everywhere else.

“I’m due in court on my due date. But thanks to Emma’s new Wi-Fi, it’s all video-conference.”

Wow.

Caroline wipes her hands on her shirt and adjusts her jacket around her belly. “Well, I should let you get on with your day. Good luck at the clinic. Give Emma my love.”

She gives me a quick hug, gentle and new. We walk her to the pickup, and she drives away.

I turn back to Derek. “Well…that was interesting.”

“Sorry, I should have warned you she changed.”

My nose wiggles. “I’m still skeptical. She made a sugar and fat-free apple pie in a stainless steel bowl.”

“It was good,” he says, flicking his rag my way. “But not as good as yours. Yours are the only ones I want to taste.” His wink ignites a spark in my chest.

That clean-cut musk of engine oil and sunshine floats in the air.

I look down the winding driveway where dust begins to settle. “She’s still practicing law. Maybe you need a lawyer to look at the estate papers and the loan?”

Maybe I should ask her to submit my divorce papers? But I can’t. I trust Emma much more, and I’m set to meet her in an hour.

He tucks the rag behind his belt and steps forward, close enough that I catch the warmth of him. “Or maybe I just need you to explain it to me.” His words slip out warm and quiet, brushing against my skin like heat.

His fingertip traces a path along my arm. Heat follows like a whisper, locking me in place. “Don’t worry about the loan, Honeycrisp. I’ll figure it out. What did she mean about the clinic?”

“I’m meeting Emma there in an hour. I should get ready. Are you gonna finish the Mustang?” I manage, my voice catching as he settles his hand at the small of my back.

“Didn’t you see her yesterday?” he asks.

“She wasn’t home. I just caught up with my brother and parents.”

“I’d offer to drive you, but I have to check the orchard right after. We’re using an organic pesticide this year. You gonna ask Dr. Marvey about working there?”

I hesitate. I finished nursing school, but I never used it. Not after what happened. Baking was safer. And buttercream sweeter. A way to help without falling apart.

He steps so close, our hips brush, and the scent of him—motor oil and memory—makes my throat tighten.

“Maybe,” I whisper.

His smile softens. “You’d be good at it.”

“Thanks. I was thinking of a break. May Day’s coming up, and I’ve got a lot of pies to bake.”

I tuck a hand at my waist, fingers brushing over my hip. “I also need to stop by the motel. My lucky underwear and face cream disappeared.”

The second I say it out loud, my gut lurches.