Page 55 of Dirty Mechanic
I swat his chest, still smiling, still floating. He smirks and runs his thumb over a smudge of motor oil on my thigh.
“You’re officially mine now,” he says. “Marked you in grease and everything.”
Another laugh bubbles up, light and unguarded. It wraps around us like the sunset streaming through the garage door.
He shifts onto his elbow, and I curl into his side, letting myself get lost in the rhythm of him. His breath. His heartbeat. The steady calm of being seen and safe.
“Was it too much?” he asks, voice softer now.
I tilt my head to meet his gaze. “It was everything I didn’t know I needed.”
He brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, then kisses my temple. We lie there, tangled in silence, the world reduced to soft rustles of trees and the faint creak of wind across the barn roof.
His stomach rumbles.
I grin. “You’re hungry.”
He swats my backside lazily. “I’m not opposed to watching you cook naked.”
I kiss him, playful. “Apron, at least.”
“Fine. But nothing else.”
I laugh, but the sound catches. Something twists inside me.
Because I haven’t told him everything.
Not about the forged divorce papers. Not about the coerced marriage. Not about the gun hidden in the RV’s bench. Not about the journal filled with truths too dangerous to leave lying around.
He doesn’t know.
Not yet.
And that knowledge sits heavily in my chest, even as we walk back toward the house with fingers twined and hearts still echoing what we just shared.
Time slips by. At some point, the dogs come in and I start dinner. By dinnertime, the kitchen smells like bacon and lemon dish soap. The windows are open to the breeze. The dogs mill around our feet. The apple trees are in bloom.
I cling to the moment. To the way his eyes follow me around like I’m the only thing he sees. To the dogs underfoot, and the stray mosquito fighting with the light.
For now, I let myself pretend that I belong here. That this is forever. And that no forged document or hidden gun can ruin the peace.
I glance at Derek, but behind that smile, I see the flicker of worry he doesn’t say aloud.
And for the first time, I let myself feel it too.
I’m scared.
Not of Derek. Not of this love that’s wrapping itself around my bones.
I’m scared of what happens when the truth finally catches up.
It’s too early for anything but bad news. My phone buzzes across the kitchen counter. I snatch the mug of coffee, burn my tongue, and answer anyway.
“Morning,” I say, doing my best to sound awake. I’m not.
“We need to talk,” Misty says, clipped and sharp. Like she’s been pacing since dawn. “It’s about Mike.”
Of course it is.
