Page 56 of Dirty Mechanic

Because nothing pairs with black coffee like a shot of dread.

I grip the mug tighter. “What happened?”

“He showed up at Town Hall this morning. With Sheriff Simon.” She’s rustling papers on her end. “Filed a formal complaint. Says you slashed his Chevy’s tires.”

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “He's right about the tires—I slashed the ones on that stolen piece of crap he calls a Chevy. But tell Simon to check the VIN number. I took a photo yesterday, and I'll bet my farm the car's hot. Mike’s playing dirty, and we’ve got proof.”

“Derek.” Her sigh lands like a punch, heavy and disappointed. “I know you’re trying to protect Annabelle. And me. But he’s Huntz’s son. That complaint isn’t just petty, it’s strategic. He’s laying the groundwork.”

I scrub a hand down my face. She’s right. She’s always right when it counts.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You better. Because the more reckless you get, the more ammo he has.”

Her voice softens. “How are you holding up?”

“Like someone dropped a wrench in my chest and forgot to pull it out.”

She chuckles, but it’s weak. “I threw up four times this morning. Blake’s trying to boil ginger like it’s some ancient sorcery. He tells me I’m beautiful while I’m heaving over the toilet.”

“That’s love,” I murmur. A smile ghosts across my lips. “He learned from the best.”

“You raised a good one.” Then quieter: “Be careful, okay?”

“You too.”

The call ends, but the unease doesn’t.

I stare out the window into the still morning. The mama dog has collapsed into a donut of regret, her pups climbing her like a jungle gym. One’s chewing her ear. One’s kicking her gut. Another’s tangled in a dish towel like a worm in a sleeping bag.

We’ve been calling the small one Trouble. Annabelle swears he’s a pie thief in training, destined for chaos. Yesterday, he toppled a box of braided apple bread and licked the glaze like it was his birthright.

Annabelle laughed. She wanted more counter space. She always talks about needing more room, more pies, more trays, but she doesn’t say why. Not out loud.

But I know.

She dreams about a bakery.

And I want to give it to her.

The quiet shifts, and I know she’s coming before I see her. Bare feet whisper across the hardwood, and then she’s there, in my shirt, her hair tangled with sleep, and eyes still soft with dreams.

She stops in the doorway like a vision I don’t deserve.

“Hey,” she says, voice still husky.

That one word hits like a prayer.

I pour her coffee. Splash of cream, no sugar—because I know. I always know.

“Sleep okay?” I ask.

“Until my personal furnace decided to disappear,” she mutters, curling her fingers around the mug.

I step closer, cage her softly between me and the counter. My bare chest brushes her arm. “Furnace, huh? You complaining?”

She smirks. “You’re very warm. Also, you sweat like a linebacker.”