Page 80 of Dirty Mechanic

“Careful,” I chuckle, brushing her knuckles. “Keep saying that, and I’ll show up to the nursery in suspenders and orthopedic shoes.”

She laughs softly, that kind of full-bodied sound that makes everything in me lean closer. “He’s got Eric’s chin,” she says, “but Emma’s don’t-you-dare glare.”

“Kid’s gonna be unstoppable.”

We pause in the middle of the square. She leans into me. Her fingers lace through mine. The sunset paints her hair with firelight, and something inside me goes very, very still.

This woman. This moment.

If I could bottle it, I would.

But underneath all that warmth, there’s a flicker in her eyes, something tugging just below the surface.

“Hey,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

So I do what I always do when her walls start creeping up. I pull her into my arms. Right there, in front of God and half the town.

She wraps around me like she’s trying to memorize the shape of safety.

“It’ll be over soon,” I promise, my lips near her temple. “No more Bishop. No more loopholes.”

I mean every word, and I’ll make damn sure this woman never has to look over her shoulder again.

I’ve spent years bracing for the rug to get yanked out, always waiting for something to break. But this—her in my arms, the world soft around us—this feels like solid ground.

I will win, and the Bishops will fucking vanish from town.

Night falls, slow and sweet. Music filters out from the square, soft strings giving way to acoustic guitars and lazy dancing. Misty’s secure in my son’s arms, and Annabelle in mine. We move together under the fairy lights like we’ve got all the time in the world. Her head rests against my chest, her fingers tangled in mine.

“You smell like cinnamon and trouble,” I murmur.

“Sounds like your type.”

I twirl her once, then pull her close again. “You’re my whole damn type.”

We’re laughing. Drunk on joy and belonging. We dance slowly, her arms around my neck, my hands on her waist, and for a minute—just one—I let myself believe this is how it ends.

Not in fire or in fists. But in softness and peace.

We sway beneath the fairy lights strung between old orchard posts, the world shrinking to the feel of her in my arms and the scent of apple blossoms on the breeze. Kids dart between legs with caramel apples. Laughter spills into the sky.

“I could get used to this,” she murmurs.

“Me too,” I say, spinning her gently before pulling her back into my arms. “Me too.” I pause, letting the words settle. “Hell, I already have. Married to the love of my life? I’m the luckiest bastard in this barn.”

That’s when I feel it.

She goes still. Just a breath, just a beat, but it’s there. Like her body forgot how to move.

Her head stays on my chest, but her hand grips a little tighter at my back. Then, softer than before?—

“Derek, there’s something I need to tell you,” she says quietly, like it’s costing her to get the words out. “About Mike. About... Something I should’ve told you sooner.”

I freeze. Not because I don’t want to hear it, but because the look in her eyes terrifies me. It’s not fear. It’s guilt.

I tilt my head, about to ask what she means, when a gust of wind cuts through the square, sharp enough to knock over a stack of programs and snap one of the festival banners clean off the cider tent frame. Sheriff Simon stumbles back with one hand clutching the flapping fabric and the other holding a mug of cider like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.