Page 66 of Dirty Mechanic
Because Mike is unpredictable. And Derek? He’s stubborn enough to get himself killed for pride.
Back home, we resume the baking. One oven is definitely not enough to fulfill all the orders I’m expecting, but we push through. Derek jokes about using a torque wrench on pie dough. I laugh. But it’s tight.
The kitchen fills with heat and sugar, and this rising, choking sense that time is running out.
Tomorrow, the market will be filled with music and flowers. Tomorrow, I’ll smile for customers and pass out slices of apple joy. But the day after? The race could take everything.
And if Mike doesn't crash, my marriage just might.
I’m almost all right until my phone dings with a forwarded message from Caroline.
I sneak off when he’s boxing pastries, duck into the pantry, and open the email.
“We received a third-party inquiry related to Case #549-39761. Divorce documents have been provisionally reviewed. Status: Pending Validation. You may be contacted by a court officer. Do not respond until advised.”
My stomach drops.
Another message dings.
Caroline: Mike has filed a contestation.
I can’t breathe.
Fuck.
The sun rises on May Day like it knows what’s coming. It’s the kind of morning where everything smells like possibility… And maybe, smoke, if you’re not paying attention.
By the time I grab the last crate of pies, Annabelle’s already halfway into the truck. She’s all nerves and determination, dressed in cuffed jeans and a red flannel tied at the waist like some retro pin-up ready for war. Her braid’s a little messy. Her cheeks are flushed from the early start. And when I slide the crate beside her, her mouth quirks up in a way that makes me forget how to breathe.
She’s beautiful.
And she’s my wife.
“Booth’s already half-built,” she says, tugging on her seatbelt as I climb in. “Emma said I’ve got a spot near the music tent. High traffic. Prime pie real estate.”
“You planning to seduce the town with sugar?” I ask, turning the key.
Her grin is all cinnamon and trouble. “Only the married men.”
She’s teasing, but all I can think about is what’s riding on today. The race prize money isn’t just for bragging rights. It’s the last payment on her bakery. If I lose, I don’t just lose to Mike. I risk everything I’ve built with her.
I snort. “You’ll have a line wrapped around the whole damn valley.”
The ride into town is quiet, but good. Comfortable. The way it should be. I find her hand on the center console, our fingers lacing like they’ve done it a hundred times. She rests her head back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for just a second. She’s tired. She’s wired. She’s so full of hope, it scares the hell out of me.
We hit the edge of town before the first booths are even up, but instead of heading toward the square, I make a turn down Main.
She blinks and sits up straighter. “Wrong way.”
“Nope,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Small detour. Trust me.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t fight it. Just watches me with that storm-meets-sunrise gaze that’s always leveled me.
We pull up beside the old stone storefront beside Valley’s Delights. It’s early, the street still drowsy with morning shadows, though lights already glow from the bakery where Mrs. Kensington’s kneading the dough. To the right, the old insurance building has been transformed with pale pink paint I rolled on yesterday. The windows sparkle. The door’s been scrubbed clean of its former tenant’s decal, and above it, a wooden sign sways gently in the breeze:
Honeycrisp Pies.
Annabelle goes still.
