Page 57 of Dirty Mechanic
“Want me to demonstrate how well I sweat again?” My hand slides under the hem of my shirt, fingers grazing the backs of her thighs.
Her breath catches. “For science?”
“Control group. You, me, this kitchen. Only variable is your total lack of pants.”
She laughs, and it sinks into my bones like sunlight.
“You’re such a nerd.”
“I’m your nerd.”
I kiss her slowly, deliberately—because I can. Because she lets me. Because through some goddamn miracle, this woman is mine.
Her fingers trail up my chest, stopping at the edge of my jaw. “That you are.”
We stand like that for a moment, wrapped in morning stillness and the scent of cinnamon and coffee and rain-washed spring air. I could kiss her right here on the kitchen floor and not come up for air until lunchtime.
But Kara barks once—sharp—and Bear lets out a low whine at the door.
Annabelle groans. “Saved by the fur brigade.”
She peels herself off me, and opens the back door, letting the dogs inside. Morning breeze slips through the screen door, bringing with it the scent of wet grass and new earth.
“You might want pants,” I call after her, as she runs upstairs. “Just a suggestion. For public decency. Or my sanity.”
Moments later, she reappears in jeans, hair in a messy knot, and cheeks flushed.
She leans against the counter beside me, mug in hand, while I start cracking eggs. It’s too easy, how we fall into rhythm. How we move around each other like we’ve been doing it for years, instead of days.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Because borrowed moments like this? They never last.
They’re too soft. Too golden.
And I was raised to survive storms, not bask in sunshine.
She crosses the kitchen to grab plates, moving fast, like she knows I’m watching her. Lately, she’s been slipping past me like that. With a flash of a smile, and a laugh that doesn’t quite land. Like she’s trying to keep the parts of her that hurt just out of reach.
I should press. Should ask what shadows she’s still hiding.
But every time I open my mouth, the words die on my tongue. So instead, I hammer fence posts. Fix cars. Pretend I can wrench her fear into something I understand.
We plate the eggs on toast, the smell of butter and rosemary filling the kitchen. And then I ask her what’s been clawing at me since she fell asleep curled into my chest.
“You ever think about what it’ll be like—our marriage, I mean?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just lowers her eyes and draws slow circles in her scrambled eggs with her fork.
I wait. Because this matters.
“I do,” she says finally, her voice soft and hesitant. “And when it happens… I hope it’s a surprise. A beautiful one. Because I know you’ll make it that way.”
Jesus.
She has no idea what that kind of trust does to a man like me.
I reach for her hand and thread our fingers together. “I don’t want you to be scared of it, Honeycrisp. I want us to be the start of everything good.”
