Page 59 of Dirty Mechanic

Simon raises both hands. “Enough. Mike, go to Anderson’s. Derek, pay for it. Next time, I press charges. On both of you.”

“I’ll fix it myself,” I bite out.

Simon blinks. “You sure?”

“Positive.” I meet Mike’s gaze, let the heat bleed from my voice until all that’s left is steel. “Got the tools. Got the time. Lords Valley’s a peaceful town. I’d sure as hell like to keep it that way.”

Mike smirks, but something flickers in his eyes. He knows he lost ground today.

Simon frowns. “I can run it to Anderson’s.”

“No need,” I say, gaze fixed on Mike. “I’ve got fresh tires in the garage. No point making two trips to Mill Creek.”

Simon gives a tight nod and delivers one last round of pointed warnings, restraining order, civility, and small-town decency. Then the cruiser and tow truck rumble down the road, leaving Mike’s wreck of a car sulking on my gravel.

I open the door and immediately spot my missing wrench, tossed behind the seat.

That son of a bitch.

When I step onto the porch, Annabelle’s already there, arms wrapped around herself, Bear practically glued to her leg. She watches me like I hung the damn moon.

“Did you slash his tires?” she asks, one brow lifted.

I grin. “Yup.”

She smiles, fierce and radiant, like I just handed her justice in a bow. “Good.”

I climb the steps and rub my hands up and down her arms, grounding both of us. “You okay?”

She hesitates. “I need to tell you something. It’s not about the bruises. It’s about Mike.”

There’s fear in her voice, not fear of me, but fear for me. And that tears something in my chest.

I cup her face, brushing my thumbs along her cheekbones. “We’ve both lived through hell. My son’s mom died before he even knew her. You were kidnapped, dragged across state lines, survived more than anyone ever should. And Mike?” I shake my head, jaw tightening. “He’s not a man. He’s a mistake that should’ve stayed buried. He doesn’t belong on this porch. Doesn’t belong in your story. I’ll fix his car better than new. And then I hope that hunk of junk carries him straight back to San Francisco without a stop, and out of our lives for good.”

Her brow lifts. “Wait. Are you saying you’d tamper with his brakes?”

I huff a laugh. “Tempting. But no. That was a joke. Mostly.”

She lets out a shaky laugh, then leans in.

“This, Honeycrisp,” I say, brushing my lips to hers, “this is our beginning.”

She kisses me, slow, reverent, full of heat and hesitation and everything we’ve both been starving for. And when she laces her fingers through mine and leads us back inside, it feels like stitching two broken halves together.

While she bakes for May Day, her laughter drifts through the house. I make a few quiet calls, heart pounding the whole time. Then I climb to the rooftop and start stringing lights, weaving them through flower pots and railing slats. I place a potted apple tree near the far edge, its blossoms pale pink, like stars caught in bloom.

She doesn’t talk about owning a bakery, not out loud. But I’ve seen the way her hands pause when we pass the storefront window downtown, the way she touches the pie crust like it’s sacred. So while she’s elbows deep in dough, I make a quick trip into town and meet with the realtor. With the last of my cash tied up at the Motor-Inn, I swallow my pride and borrow just enough from Blake for a deposit to secure the deal. The rest will come through once the inheritance clears from our marriage or from my winnings in the race. If this is going to be her home, I want her to own a piece of it. Literally. Annabelle will love her new bakery. She just doesn’t know it yet.

On the way back, I make one last stop.

Rusty Lantern Pub. I don’t linger. Just enough time to slip a bottle of laxatives into the inside pocket of my jacket. Spike Mike’s beer. And vanish before anyone sees me.

By the time I get home, the sun’s bleeding out over the orchard and dusk stretches long across the hills like the valley’s holding its breath.

I lead her upstairs, heart beating like I’m nineteen again and asking her out for the first time.

She’s barefoot, wearing a long summer dress patterned in tiny apple blossoms, the fabric catching the last of the light. When we reach the rooftop, she stops. Breath hitching.