Page 66 of Tuned To Break
The TV is still playing. The wine glasses are empty. And in the quiet glow of our little love-den of chaos and movie-night crumbs, I realise something real.
For the first time in my life, the future doesn’t feel scary.
With Stella, it feels like home. Not the place. Not the couch, or the TV, or the faint scent of caramel in the air.Her.She’s the home I didn’t think I’d ever find.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STELLA
Tuesday morning dawns crisp and bright, with golden sunlight that makes everything look like it’s been touched by magic. I’m feeling particularly confident about life as I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on my makeup. The workshop is running like a well-oiled machine these days. Client satisfaction is at an all-time high, and last night Jake told me he loves me while making me see stars—more than once. The memory still makes my cheeks flush, and my pulse quicken.
Life is very, very good.
I’m wearing my favourite white blouse today—the one Jake says makes my tits look incredible, though he usually uses more colourful language when he’s whispering it in my ear. It’s crisp cotton that fits like it was tailored for me, paired with a black pencil skirt that hugs my curves in all the right places and my lucky red heels—the ones that click against concrete in a way that announces my presence before I even speak.
The outfit screams “competent businesswoman who has her shit together,” which is exactly the vibe I’m going for as I stride across the workshop floor with a stack of client files tucked under my arm. The familiar sounds greet me like an old friend—the steady thrum of air compressors, the rhythmic tapping ofhammers, the soft rock drifting from someone’s radio. It’s the soundtrack to my new life, and I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
“Morning, princess,” José calls from under the bonnet of a classic Corvette, his voice slightly muffled by the engine bay but still carrying that teasing note I’ve come to associate with brotherly affection.
I pause mid-stride, fixing him with my best stern expression even though a smile tugs at my lips. “Morning, José. And what have I told you about calling meprincess?”
“That you’ll dock my pay and make my body disappear if I do it again?” he replies, grinning even though I can’t see his face.
“Exactly. So why are you still doing it?”
His head pops up from under the bonnet, oil-stained hands braced on the guard, and his expression is pure mischief. “Because it winds you up, and watching you get all fiery and bossy is entertaining. Plus, you make this face when you’re trying not to smile—that’s absolutely adorable.”
I shake my head but can’t help the laugh that escapes. The guys have gotten more comfortable with me since Jake, and I went public. There’s less walking on eggshells and more of the easy banter that comes with genuine friendship. It’s taken two months to build this rapport, but now it feels natural—like we’re a family that just happens to work together.
“Where’s Kinky Batman this morning?” Asher asks from his paint station, not looking up from the careful work he’s doing on what looks like a vintage Chev panel. His movements are precise and practised, and I take a moment to appreciate the skill it takes to make something damaged look brand new again.
“His name is Jake,” I reply automatically, fighting another smile, “and he’s picking up parts from the supplier. Should be back by noon.”
“Kinky Batman,” Parker corrects with a grin, finally looking up from the electrical system he’s been wrestling all morning. “You can’t just call him Jake anymore. The nickname has stuck.”
“I can call my boyfriend whatever I want,” I say with mock authority, warmth creeping into my voice anyway.
“Ooh,boyfriend,” Robert chimes in from his welding station, lifting his mask to reveal a face brightened by genuine pleasure. “First time you’ve called him that at work.”
“Shut up,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face or the happiness out of my voice. The wordboyfriendstill gives me a little thrill, even after weeks together. There’s something solid and real about having a label—about claiming Jake publicly as mine.
I’m heading toward my office, already mentally organising my morning, when I notice a small puddle of what looks like oil near Jake’s workstation. It’s dark and viscous, spreading slowly across the grey concrete like a miniature slick. Being the responsible operations manager I am—and having implemented safety protocols specifically to prevent hazards like this—I decide to clean it before someone slips.
I grab some paper towels from the supply shelf—the industrial-strength kind we buy in bulk because everything in a workshop gets messy. The oil is slipperier than I expect when I bend to wipe it up, my heels clicking as I try to get a better angle without kneeling in my good skirt.
What happens next occurs in slow motion, like one of those disaster movies where you can see the catastrophe coming but you’re powerless to stop it. Time stretches and warps as physics takes over and common sense takes a holiday.
My feet slide out from under me with the inevitability of gravity. I windmill my arms, trying to regain balance, my stack of client files scattering through the air like confetti. But gravity has other plans, and momentum is not my friend.
I go down hard, landing squarely on my arse with a wet squelch that echoes through the workshop like a gunshot. The impact reverberates through my bones, and for a moment I’m too stunned to do anything but sit there.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that I’ve landed directly in a drip tray full of used motor oil that someone—and I’m going to find out who—left sitting on the floor like a booby trap designed to ruin my day.
The black, sticky liquid splashesall over me and immediately soaks through my white blouse and pencil skirt, the fabric drinking it up like a sponge. The oil is cold and viscous, seeping through the cotton and spreading across my skin in a way that makes me shudder. It covers me from waist to knees in what looks like the aftermath of an environmental disaster, dripping from my hair and sliding down my face in rivulets that probably make me look like I’ve been dipped in tar.
For a moment, the entire workshop is silent except for the sound of oil dripping.
