Page 8 of Falling for the Mechanic

Cameron

The rational part of my brain, the part that has built walls and enforced rules my entire life, sends out one last, feeble signal.

We shouldn’t be doing this.

But it’s too late. The argument is incinerated the moment the taste of her sweetness hits my tongue. I’m gone. The fight is over. I’ve lost, and I have never welcomed a defeat more.

I stop thinking. I stop resisting. The constant, low-grade hum of frustration that is my default setting just…quiets.

For the first time in years, my mind is silent, every ounce of my focus narrowed to this single, searing point of contact.

Never mind the pounding headache or the deep, familiar soreness of my back muscles from a night sleeping on my couch.

All of my pains are gone, burned away by a fire she lit with a single look.

They’re replaced with this overwhelming need to memorize every dip and curve of this woman’s mouth, to learn the rhythm of her breath as if it’s my own.

She’s the first to pull away, her cheeks flushed a beautiful, rosy pink that makes my chest ache. “I…I’ve got morning breath. Sorry, but I should—”

My mouth is on hers again before she can mutter another apology, cutting off her retreat.

I’ve already grown tired of hearing her say the word.

Sorry. She’s got nothing to be sorry for.

Not for this. Not for dismantling my defenses with a sigh, for making me smile against my will, for being the first person to look at me and see something worth seeing in a long, long time.

Chelsea melts against me despite her words, a soft, yielding warmth that undoes me completely.

A quiet sigh escapes her, the last hint of protest, and once she realizes I don’t give a damn about anything but the feel of her in my arms, she’s all in.

Her arms slide around my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at my nape, sealing us together.

And just like that, the last of our resistance crumbles to dust. I’m not just kissing her. I’m caving. I’m free-falling with no intention of stopping the fall.

I kiss her until my lips are numb and my lungs burn for air. I kiss her until the world outside ceases to exist. My hands frame her face with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed, holding her like she’s something precious, something fragile. The truth is, she feels like she is.

I want more.

I want to lift her onto this counter and learn the taste of her skin. I want to carry her back to my bed and spend the day forgetting my own name on her lips.

But I can’t, can I? She’s not mine, nowhere close. She isn’t even a part of Willowbrook Ridge. Once I let her go, it’s for good.

The reality of it is a cold splash of water. She’s hungover, vulnerable, and trusting me in a way no one has in years. Taking advantage of that, even if she’s willing, would make me the bastard this town already thinks I am. It’s out of the question.

The conflict must show on my face because when I finally, reluctantly, break the kiss, her eyes are wide and dazed, her lips kiss-swollen and perfect. My own breath is ragged, echoing in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

I need a distraction. Something to break this spell before I do something more than kiss her. My brain, still fogged with her, scrambles for the most mundane, stupid thing it can find.

“Are you hungry?” My voice is rough, scraped raw from the intensity of the kiss. It’s the best thing I can ask for to form a distraction. “I cooked.”

For a moment, she just blinks at me, the haze of desire slowly clearing. Ever so slowly, her words come out one at a time. “I am starving.”

Can’t trick myself into thinking something else, but she makes it impossible. The way she says it, all breathless, makes it feel like a confession that has nothing to do with food.

“Right,” I grunt, the word coming out sharper than I intended.

I force myself to put distance between us, turning so I can retreat toward the stove. The space where her body was against mine feels instantly cold. The eggs are probably rubber, and the bacon is burnt to a crisp.

I can’t care. I focus on the task of plating food, anything to steady myself back to reality.

We eat in silence, both lost in our thoughts. Neither of us knows how to wrap our minds around what just happened.

In between bites, her attention goes to her phone, the screen lighting up with a persistence that feels like an intrusion. Soon, she’s telling me her brother is going to come pick her up. The announcement lands like a lead weight in my gut.

“He insists since I won’t pick up his calls to prove I’m alive.

” She lets out a soft, self-conscious laugh, asking me for my address.

I give her all the information she needs, the numbers and street name feeling like a betrayal on my tongue.

I’m already dreading letting her go, already feeling the silence of this house closing in again once she’s gone.

“Are you returning to your parents?” Recalling every bitter word from last night, I’d hate for her to get upset again. The protective urge is sudden and fierce, a need to shield her from the people who put that wounded look in her eyes.

She blows out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh, heavy with old resentments.

“Not a chance. If I do, I’ll just be the one blamed for ruining everything, and I don’t deserve that.

” The conviction in her voice is new, a hard-won strength.

Shaking her head, her body sinks further into her seat as if the fight has drained out of her, leaving only resolve.

“He’ll let me crash at his place until my tires are replaced.

After that, I’m writing this visit off as a nightmare. ”

“That bad?” I grimace, trying to write it off like a joke, but the question is sincere. The thought of being relegated to a bad dream, of being something she wants to forget, twists something inside me.

Poking at her food, she shrugs, but her eyes lift to meet mine. There’s a new warmth in them, a softness that wasn’t there before. “Not all of it.” Her gaze flicks to my mouth for a heartbeat, and the air between us thickens. “There were some good parts.”

A twitch of her mouth, a small, private smile just for me, eases the weight on my shoulders.

I nod, my own voice gruffer than usual. “I’ll make room in the shop schedule. Get you out fast, if you want.” The offer comes with ease. I’m learning that even at the cost of what I want, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep that smile on her lips.

She hesitates, her fork stilling over her plate. For a second, she looks conflicted. “You can take your time. There’s no rush.”

The words hang in the air between us, and I try not to let them go to my head. She isn’t running. Not from me. Not yet. For now, that’s enough to make the dread of her leaving recede, replaced by a low, steady hum of anticipation for whatever there is to come.

* * *

I make it to the shop an hour late. Honestly, I don’t expect much repercussions since, for the last week, I’ve been managing everything on my own. However, the moment I see Nash’s truck, I’m cursing under my breath and wondering what I did to deserve such bad timing.

He’s going to call me irresponsible and add that insult to his list of reasons I’m not ready to take ownership.

As soon as I’m inside, I catch him settled at the computer flipping through receipts. At the other end of the desk, he’s got his cane resting against the corner. I’m relieved that he’s using it, but annoyed to see him.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Dropping my keys on the desk, I fetch a shirt to throw over my shoulders. “Doc said three weeks minimum.”

He ignores my words, his frown matching mine. “Alina called. Asked us if the slow season was over with how many cars are in the lot.”

His fingers slow, and his eyes flick up in my direction. He’s not mad that I’m late. Hell, I don’t even think that’s on the list of reasons behind his frown. “Cameron.”

I hate it when he gets like this. I feel like I’m being scolded without the words being said.

“Need to take whatever we can get.” If I work long shifts, I can keep up. Even if I’m running solo, I’ve got the drive. “Winter is coming. It’s mostly tire replacements and oil changes. Simple as simple can get.”

Except, we both know that’s a lie. Running without a staff has already taken its toll. I’m trying to make up for being the reason behind all of this.

Setting down the papers, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture weary and familiar.

“How am I supposed to sit at home without worrying about you hurting yourself? Shop can’t be helped if we’re both taken out.

” It’s his old refrain, the practical concern that usually just fuels my own anxiety.

Normally, I’d brush off his words with a grunt, tell him I’m fine, and get right to it, burying the worry under a mountain of work. It’s what I do. It’s all I know how to do.

But today…today, I’m feeling off. Chelsea’s left me exposed. That kiss, that moment of unguarded surrender, has scraped me raw.

The usual armor I strap on every morning feels cracked and ill-fitting. The constant, simmering pressure to prove myself, to be enough, feels closer to the surface, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe under its weight.

A sigh, heavy and defeated, escapes me before I can stop it.

I move to a flipped gallon bucket and take a seat, the plastic cold and hard beneath me.

My knee starts bouncing, a nervous, restless tremor I can’t control.

I can’t look at him. I stare at the oil-stained concrete between my boots, my voice strained.

“You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if it weren’t for me. If we didn’t have to fight so hard during this dry spell…” The confession is torn from a place I usually keep locked down tight. It’s the core of it, the rotten foundation of every sour mood, every snapped word. It’s all my fault.

My uncle scoffs, and I don’t have to look his way to know he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m old, Cameron. That’s why I hurt myself. You’ve got nothing to do with it.”

The logic is sound. I know it is. But the guilt is a parasite that doesn’t feed on logic.

It’s a whisper in the dark, a constant, grinding reminder that I’m failing.

Still going to blame myself every day for it.

The thought is a familiar, toxic companion.

Little thoughts like that are what keep my mood sour.

“Stop scheduling so tightly and moving around the customers to squeeze even more in. The shop will be fine.”

I’ve lost count of how many times he’s tried to reassure me. Over and over, every time he catches me frantic about losing a business my father lifted from the ground, he says the words, a steady, patient promise in his voice.

A decade now, he hasn’t grown tired of saying the words.

I wish it worked as well as he thought it did. I wish I could believe him. But the fear is a deeper stain than any on this floor.

The words hang in the air between us, words I’ve never allowed myself to believe. But the fight has gone out of me, and the exhaustion is now pouring through.

I let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carrying the weight of too many restless nights and missed meals. The tension finally leaves my shoulders, and I feel myself slump forward, elbows on my knees. I say the next word quietly but clearly. “Okay,”

The silence that follows is thick with shock. I can feel my uncle’s stare boring into the side of my head. He was braced for an argument, for my usual stubborn refusal to yield an inch.

“Okay?” he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief.

“I’ll wrap up what I have. Then I’ll slow down.” I say the words, and for the first time, I don’t just mean them for his benefit.

A strange, foreign sensation uncoils in my chest. It’s relief. A deep, profound relief that makes me realize just how tired I am, how long I’ve been running on fumes, punishing myself.

I finally look up at him. “You can go back up the mountain. Enjoy your time away. I’ve got it.”

Nash immediately shakes his head, a firm, decisive motion.

“Not a chance.” He gestures vaguely at the stack of invoices on his desk.

“Took one look at the orders you put in for parts deliveries this week. I need to be here to figure out the budget, make sure you’re not overspending trying to fix everything at once.

” He leans back in his chair, and a knowing look softens his features.

“Today, I’m going to make sure you’re okay. ”

A scoff escapes me, a weak attempt to regain some control. “So, you’re going to be my babysitter?”

A genuine smile, one I haven’t seen in a long time, spreads across Nash’s face. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I’ll be whatever I have to be to make sure my nephew is alright.”

The simple, unwavering loyalty in his words hits me square in the chest, a final, decisive blow to the remains of my defenses. There’s no fight left in me. Just a weary, grateful acceptance.

One thing runs deep in my family, and it’s our stubbornness. Already knowing this man isn’t going anywhere, I abandon my seat and get to work.