Page 98 of Dirty Mechanic

Downstairs, my legs are still wobbly, and Derek doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin when I lean on the counter for support.

“I regret nothing,” he says, stepping around me to grab coffee.

“You cracked the bed support again.”

He shrugs like it’s a badge of honor. “It was already cracked.”

“From last time,” I mutter, failing miserably to smother a grin. “Now it’s completely broken. Guess we can’t do that again.”

“We still have the table,” he says with a devilish glint.

I shoot him a look. “Oh, I remember the table.”

“Good,” he murmurs, nipping at my neck. “You’ll be back on it before the end of the week.”

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are already flushed. “You really do think with your dipstick, don’t you?”

He chuckles, all sin and satisfaction, and I swear, if I didn’t have twenty pies to box up, he’d have me right back on the counter.

“Guilty,” he says, brushing past me to grab a roll of twine from the drawer. “But hey, at least I check my fluids regularly.”

I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I finish packing up the last crate of pies. But even through the laughter, I feel the weight pressing back in around the edges. Behind the teasing, there’s something else—something quieter. Something neither of us has said out loud since last night.

We’re okay right now.

But that man—the one with my name still technically on his paperwork—he’s still out there. And even if my heart belongs to Derek, even if this house and this life feel like home… We both know peace doesn’t last forever.

Not when Mike Bishop’s breathing the same air.

Derek loads the last of the pies into the truck and looks at me over the bed rail.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go and be normal for a day.”

He gives me a crooked smile. “You and me, Honeycrisp? We’ve never done normal.”

And he’s right.

The sun’s first rays find me still half-asleep, curled around Annabelle in the RV bunk. Her hair fans across my chest like spun gold, and for a moment, everything else—the lawsuits, Mike Bishop’s threats, the relentless fear—just…disappears.

But the day waits for no one, and a couple of hours later, we’re back in motion.

We haul the pie crates out to the truck together, her hand brushing mine as we load up Misty’s empty stand. By the time we reach the square, the tents are alive with laughter and the scent of kettle corn. Misty waves us over from her booth, beckoning for a restock. Annabelle hands her the last of the apple–maple pies with a grin that lights up the whole damn street.

The sky is a brilliant blue—suspiciously brilliant, judging by the weather app—and everyone’s talking about the chances of an evening storm. I only half-listen. Rick’s car won’t run tonight, and I know exactly why. That’s satisfaction enough.

Annabelle slips away for water, braid swinging like a metronome as she weaves between the booths. I hesitate—a single breath—then go after her.

And that’s when I see her?—

Cornered. Behind the booth near the portable generators.

Mike fucking Bishop has his hands on her. And I’m too far away.

He’s gripping her arm. Her body’s stiff, spine straight like she’s bracing for impact. She twists, trying to get free, but he leans in, lips moving fast and low. I see the flinch in her shoulders. See her hand pull back?—

Crack.