Page 21 of Dirty Mechanic
Holy hell. I swallow. “No spiders,” I rasp. “But I can double-check under your shirt.”
Her smile falters. “Maybe get the RV ready instead?”
There’s more in her tone. She’s not up for the camper either, yet she’s stubborn. She reaches for sweatpants.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you—again.”
“It’s your house. I’m just figuring out where I belong.”
My throat tightens. She belongs here. With me.
She belongs everywhere.
I nod toward my bedroom. “Your suitcase is on the bed. You can change.”
She tugs on the shirt’s hem. “I might keep this on. Smells like motor oil and home.”
Fuck.
Her face lights up like it used to, but her eyes hold distance. I step back, forcing myself out. I need caffeine—or maybe a sedative, because finding the right moment to warn her about Mike feels impossible.
One way or another, I’m about to be glued to her hip.
Her voice drifts down the stairs: “You think the RV will be ready tomorrow?”
The kitchen’s counter slips from under my sweaty grip. “I doubt it.”
She’ll get the same answer until I have no choice.
“So”—she appears in the doorway, arms crossed, hip cocked—“I guess I’m staying.”
Somehow, her family’s loss and her brother’s crowded house become my victory. It’s selfish, but I don’t care. She’s here, and she’s staying with me.
I pull steaks from the fridge. “Guess so.”
She strides across the kitchen, flinging cupboard doors open. “I hope you stocked up on fritter fixings, because I need to bake.”
I didn’t just stock up. I’ve got crates of last season’s apples chilling in the orchard fridge, and the cold room is lined with jars of homemade pie filling.
She jabs a finger into my chest. “And if I wake up with a dog in my bed, I’m taking my chances in the spider-infested camper.”
I catch her finger in my fist—gentle but firm. “No promises, Honeycrisp.”
She groans, the corners of her lips tugging into a reluctant smile.
It’s small, but it’s a start.
And no way in hell am I letting her go again.
Predawn light seeps beneath the curtain, bathing the room in honeyed whispers. My heart skips against my ribs. I’ve slept under Lords Valley skies for the first time in years, and already dawn feels like a promise on the brink of blooming. Somewhere out there, Derek’s Mustang thrums around the oval, its growl a steady heartbeat on the track. I shouldn’t want him racing—and yet I’m grateful he’s practicing—chasing his own ghosts.
On the desk, my purse waits like a silent judge. I finger the manila envelope—ordinary, innocent—though inside it hides the divorce papers that will set me free from the name Mike forced on me. The one piece of paperwork he cared enough to file was a certified name-change form, erasing who I used to be and officially labeling me, Annabelle Bishop. My chest tightens as I slit the flap and ease the paper free. Ink glints on the dotted line, mocking me. I lift the pen, its weight heavier than a stack of pie pans, and scrawl the name Mike chose across the divorce decree. Each curve of the letters tastes like rebellion, like sugar over tart pastry.
After a steady breath, I flip the sheet. Beneath my name, I sign “Michael Bishop,” forging his signature the same way this sham of a marriage was sealed.
Every exit has its risks. But this is the only one that leads to real freedom.
“Today, I’m un-Mrs. Bishop.”
