Page 49 of Dirty Mechanic

I start to answer, but catch Derek’s gaze over her shoulder. He’s watching me again like I’m a puzzle he’s willing to spend his whole life solving. There’s a stillness in him that wasn’t there a moment ago. A bracing. A readiness. Derek Fields, the man who fixes engines, fences, and everything in between. Except maybe, me.

“Just adjusting.” I force a smile. “I forgot how quiet it gets out here.”

Emma’s eyes narrow slightly, but she lets it go.

“Any word on those papers I gave you?” I ask.

“They should be processed in a couple of days,” she says. “And yes, they’ll be backdated.”

Relief ripples through me. “Thank you. Really. I appreciate you helping me with this.”

“Please. You’re talking to a woman who’s crowning a watermelon. This is easy. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

I laugh. “You’re just about to deliver and you want to help?”

“Believe me. I’m fine. Your parents are watching baby Albert, so I feel like I have all the time in the world. For now. But I do have something important to warn you about.”

She shifts in her chair, rubs her belly with a wince, and rolls her eyes. “Caroline submitted a petition to the May Day committee.”

My brows lift. “About what?”

“She wants to reduce the sugar content of all the festival’s baked goods by half. Claims it’s for ‘public prenatal safety.’”

I nearly drop my spoon into the cider jug. “She’s coming for the pies? My pies? I thought she turned a new leaf?”

“Going straight for the jugular about the sugar,” Emma confirms, deadpan. “She told the mayor your filling is a ‘diabetic time bomb wrapped in flaky propaganda.’”

My jaw drops. “She better brace herself. If she touches my pies, she’s gonna get a full-sugar ass-whooping. You think I can trust her if I need legal help?”

She leans forward. “You think you may need one?”

I meet her eyes and nod. “Yeah, I might.”

“My brothers swear by her,” Emma says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But if you’d rather keep it distant, the Wagner brothers are based in New York. They’re old family friends and very, very good.”

“I may give Caroline a chance,” I say slowly. “People deserve second chances.”

Emma softens. “She’s already started the restraining order paperwork. You’re not alone anymore, Belle. Not in this.”

“Unless she touches my pies,” I mutter.

We laugh, loud and unfiltered, and when Derek and Eric join us with mugs of cider and slices of apple-rhubarb pie, it almost feels like peace.

Turns out Derek preserved last year’s apples, and there’s enough filling to carry me through until the orchards bloom again.

It’s almost like he knew I was coming home to bake.

After they leave, Derek disappears into the garage, and I finish up for the night, kneading the last of the dough, cleaning the countertops, and tucking the pies into labeled boxes.

Then I shower.

And that’s when I see them.

The bruises have been there since Mike grabbed me that first night, but until now I’ve refused to really look at myself. Today, there’s no avoiding them. They’re fully bloomed in ugly shades of purple and sickly blue across the insides of my thighs. I stare at them like they belong to someone else.

But they don’t.

They belong to me. To the past I can’t run from. To the man who still thinks he owns me.