Page 71 of Dirty Mechanic

She leans in, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, “You’re lucky I like a little grease with my romance.”

God, I love this woman.

The music swells, then fades. Annabelle pulls back and glances across the lawn. “I should check on Emma. She looked a little off earlier.”

I let her go, reluctantly.

She weaves through the crowd toward the cider tent, where Emma’s pacing with one hand braced against her belly like she’s daring gravity to win. I watch as she reaches for Annabelle, whispering something close to her ear. Annabelle stiffens—just a flicker—but I catch it. Her smile falters. She squeezes Emma’s hand, then pastes that sunny expression right back on.

I narrow my eyes.

Something’s wrong.

When she returns, her voice is breezy, her eyes anything but.

“Everything okay?” I ask gently.

She forces a smile. “Just girl stuff. Baby nerves. Pie cravings. You know.”

I study her closely, the tension tight in her shoulders. “You sure? You seem nervous.”

She hesitates, eyes briefly slipping from mine. “I’m fine,” she whispers, though her voice trembles just enough for me to notice.

She’s scared. And if she won’t tell me why, then I’ve got to be ready for anything.

I rub the back of my neck, the edge of my bank letter pressing in my back pocket like a brand, burning straight through the denim.

She doesn’t need more stress. I can carry it. I’ll handle it. I’ll start the trust transfer tomorrow.

Annabelle’ laughs with Mrs. Denton and the group of middle schoolers who pooled their allowance for a single cherry pie. She’s good at playing calm, but I know what her real smile looks like, and that’s not it

She’s searching for someone.

Him.

Blake’s a few tents down, pretending to care about cider samples. But I know the stance. He’s locked in. Watching. Eric’s near the main thoroughfare, shadowing Emma like a bodyguard who’s two contractions away from catching a baby.

Good. At least, they’ve got her covered.

I head for the racer’s lot, heart thudding harder with every step.

The path near the gristmill is quieter, the buzz of the festival fading behind me. Trees cast long, slanted shadows across the gravel. Most of the racers are still gorging on burgers and beer at the fairgrounds, which makes it easy to spot what doesn’t belong.

Twenty or so cars are lined up, polished and tuned to hell, but one stands out.

The red Chevy. Hood popped, and no one in sight.

I check over my shoulder. Not a soul.

My boots crunch over the gravel, loud in the hush as I step up to the front of the car. One glance under the hood, and my gut seizes.

That engine is brand new.

I know the build. The crisp red valve covers, the performance headers, and the high-flow air intake. This isn’t patched together or salvaged. It’s a full, high-performance rebuild.

Mike didn’t do this alone.

Someone dropped serious cash into this thing. And if I’m right, that someone’s name is Rick.