Page 16 of Dirty Mechanic
Yet beneath it, I feel her hesitation, and her fear. God, Belle, what happened to you?
“I can walk.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
She sighs and relaxes a little, but I’m not letting her go. If I do, I might lose her again, along with every chance to fix all the broken parts of my Annabelle to make her whole again.
The hall reeks of stale smoke and regret.
When we hit fresh air, her grip loosens, but mine doesn’t.
Lords Valley sprawls ahead, sleepy and unchanged. Except Annabelle’s here, and I’m carrying her home like 2007 all over again.
“Now that I’ve got you right where I want you… Are you finally back to marry me? You know, it’s our year.”
She rolls her eyes. “You propose like a hillbilly. And yes, our year.”
“I propose like a man who remembers our promise sealed between your thighs.”
She chokes on laughter. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re bendy when you’re drunk. If I recall, we make excellent decisions when we bend together. You get loud. Real enthusiastic.”
She swats my arm. “Derek.”
“Ah, so it is Derek now.”
Her face warms, but her eyes flash want, doubt, and shame. I feel her history rolling through my chest, still there since she left after Huntz died.
She goes quiet.
And suddenly, I need to know.
I tighten my hold, voice dropping to a low growl. “Why are you fighting this so hard? We’ve already slept together. You know what we are.”
She stiffens, then brushes a grease smudge from my brow. “Exactly. You know what I’m like in bed. There’s no more mystery. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Wrong.
It means everything. And she’ll forever be my mystery.
“You’re perfect,” I blurt.
No answer—only her pulse against my fingers. Twenty minutes later, I carry her to my front porch like she’s mine to bring home. My boots thud against the steps, the porch creaks beneath us, and my breath damn near stops when I cross the threshold with her in my arms like newlyweds.
She’s here.
In my house.
“Welcome home, Annabelle.”
The dogs go wild, Bear sniffing and Kara wagging her tail like her best friend’s back.
I set Annabelle down gently, and she immediately tightens the towel. The dogs are relentless until she crouches and gives them a proper welcome filled with pats and belly rubs. When she stands, her eyes flick to the photos on the mantle of Blake and me. Her lips part, and I swear to God, if she says sorry, I’ll lose it.
She doesn’t say anything.
I turn, rummaging through the closet for something she can wear. I hand her Misty’s old sweatpants Blake left here, and one of my shirts.
