Page 26 of Dirty Mechanic

What if…

What if Mike’s not just in my head? What if he’s been in that room, touching my things? What if he’s here? What the hell was I thinking, getting comfortable?

The air changes. Every cell in me tightens as Derek’s scent, his nearness, and the promise in his eyes, take over my senses.

He steps forward, his dilated pupils filling my field of vision. Colour drains from his face and steel replaces the warmth in his eyes.

I shiver.

He exhales. “I’m driving you to the clinic.” He peels off his ragged tee, muscles rippling under damp skin. My mouth goes dry.

“What about the car and the orchard? I can take the bike?—”

His palm snags around my wrist, anchoring me. “No. You’re coming with me. Be ready in fifteen minutes.” He inches closer, and I swear I taste hope and something more forbidden on his breath.

I turn to leave, and he stops me with one word: “Annabelle.”

That single name carries ownership—you’re mine—and damn it, a foolish part of me wants to be his.

I turn around. He stands beside his Mustang, framed by grease and sunlight, a man who’d bulldoze anything between him and what he wants.

“Whoever you’re running from, you don’t have to face him alone.”

Shit. He speaks as if he already knows.

I point to the RV. “Any idea when it’ll be ready?”

His smirk returns, slow and devastating. “What’s wrong, Honeycrisp? Don’t like sleeping in my bed?”

Goosebumps bloom. Sleeping isn’t the problem. It’s everything I imagine happening afterward.

It’s the way his scent surrounds me at night. The way the sheets hold the warmth of his body. The way I imagine him sliding beneath them with me.

I spin on my heel and flee, heart sluicing cold down my spine and cheeks aflame.

Upstairs, I stop at the hallway mirror. My face looks drawn, but my eyes blaze with purpose. I push my shoulders back, sweep one lock of hair behind my ear, and inhale. Fear can try to bite, but today, I call the next move.

A glance at my purse on the dresser ushers me forward. I slip my hand inside, fingers brushing the manilla envelope. My escape is a stamp of approval away.

Armed with adrenaline, I change in a blur, mascara streaked from shaky hands. I hear the shower running in the washroom. Hear him. An instant image of water sliding down his chest and across those hard thighs forms in my head.

Stop.

I stuff the manila envelope into my purse, heart hammering. It’s time to send the documents before Mike finds them.

I head back down. Moments later, Derek stands by the door, hair damp, T-shirt black and stretched across his chest like a memory I ache to taste. I lick over my cracked lips.

“Ready?” he asks.

Not even close, but I nod, grab a box of hot fritters and follow him to his black truck. The shiny monster is one his prides.

He grips the steering wheel with his left hand, maneuvering the turns as his right hand grazes the gear shift close enough to scorch my thigh. My body hums. I fight the memory of how he held me yesterday, and how he looked at me this morning.

“Derek, stop!”

My hand flies out, grabbing his arm.

“Look!” I point out the window.