Page 42 of Dirty Mechanic

I reach into my pocket and pull out the small tub of cream—along with the crumpled pair of trophy panties.

“He had these.”

Her expression shatters.

I offer the cream, but she doesn’t take it.

“You should burn them both,” she whispers.

And I will. Happily.

I lean back, arms braced against the counter. “He said Huntz was his father. And that he knows you shot Huntz. That I beat him with a wrench.”

She goes still. A violent tremor hits her a beat later, rattling her from the inside out. Her hands grip the edge of the counter, but her knees buckle.

I’m already there, catching her before she crashes to the floor. She grips my arms for support, weightless and shaking, like every bone in her body is made of fear.

I lower us to the ground and hold her close, one hand at her back, the other shielding her head. She’s trembling so hard, it feels like an aftershock.

Her breaths are sharp, shallow, broken. Every inhale stabs through my ribs like glass.

“Shh,” I whisper into her hair. “We both know he doesn’t know the full truth. But I need to know how much he does. I need you to tell me everything, Honeycrisp.”

She clutches my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

“Mike Bishop is one of Misty’s half-brothers. He’s the reason I couldn’t leave San Francisco,” she chokes out. “He blackmailed me.”

The words land like a punch straight to the gut.

“After Huntz, I went back to finish the lease,” she says, voice wobbling. “But I planned to return for Eric and Emma’s wedding. For you.”

My blood freezes.

She draws in a shaky breath.

“I wanted to be here. I knew you were waiting. But he caught up to me. He said he’d tell everyone I shot Huntz. He threatened me, Derek. He didn’t give me a choice.”

She pulls back just enough to look up. Her eyes lock with mine—wide, wet, and wrecked.

“He’s worse than Huntz. He burned down my parents’ house.”

My vision narrows. My pulse roars in my ears.

“What?”

“I was here that day,” she whispers. “In town. I came back to marry you. But he set the house on fire. Then he dragged me back to San Francisco.”

Rage rises in me like a tide. Cold. Hot. Merciless.

I cradle the back of her head, pulling her closer, fingers threading into her hair like I can hold her together by sheer force of will.

“You were here?” I breathe. My mind flashes to that day. To the sharp suit, the ring in my pocket, and the hope in my chest. I remember standing near the riverbank, heart in my throat, watching the horizon for her silhouette. Waiting. Then came the confusion. The fire and thick smoke curling over the hill from her parents’ house. The sick, spiraling fear she’d been inside.

“I was,” she says, voice cracking open. “I wore a blue dress. I was going to say yes, Derek. I swear I was.”

My throat locks.

Everything I thought I lost was stolen.