Page 91 of Dirty Mechanic

How long she must’ve lived with that fear. The weight of a lie that only grew heavier the more I gave her. How easy it would’ve been for her to run again. But she didn’t.

She stayed.

And maybe that means something.

I lean back in the seat, staring through the windshield at the flickering lights.

I lean my forehead against the steering wheel.

“I’m still angry,” I murmur, “but I’m still in this.”

When I lift my head, I catch movement across the street.

Caroline.

She steps out of Valley’s Delights, tugging her coat tighter against the storm. Her heels click over the sidewalk, steady and unfazed, even as the rain slicks her dark hair to her jaw. She’s halfway to her car when I throw my truck into drive, and roll down the window, passing by her.

“Caroline.”

She glances up, spots me, and hesitates just long enough for me to see her sigh before she veers around my truck. She opens the passenger door and slides in like this isn’t the weirdest moment of her night.

“You look like shit.” She shuts the door with force.

“I feel worse,” I admit.

"You always did mope like a country song."

"Don’t start," I mutter. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

She pats her belly. “Baby Boone had a craving for a cheese croissant.”

She rubs her hands together for warmth and gives me a long side-glance. “So, are we venting or planning a defense strategy?”

“I need answers.”

“About?”

“Forged signatures. Backdated divorces. What happens when a man marries a woman who wasn’t free to marry him.”

She lets out a long, slow breath. “Jesus, Derek.”

I nod. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

“I have an attorney-client privilege. I can’t really talk to you about this.”

I reach into my pocket and grab the first bill I find—a twenty—and hand it to her. “Here. Now you’re my lawyer too. Now talk.”

Caroline rests her head briefly against the headrest, then straightens. “It’s complicated. If the court finds out she forged a signature, there’s potential criminal exposure, but we might be able to argue coercion, especially with Mike’s record and the abuse she’s gone through. It’ll take court intervention, yes. Probably a fine. You might need to annul that marriage and remarry. But it’s fixable.”

My grip tightens around the steering wheel.

She softens. “The real question is, do you still want to fix it?”

The thunder rumbles low over the valley, rolling through the hills like a warning.

I stare at the windshield, rain blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. But in my mind, I see her hands again, rolling dough, stirring apples, lighting candles in a bakery she dreamed into existence. I see her running through our orchard. I see her in my truck, in my bed, in my life.

“I do,” I say quietly. “God help me, I do.”