Page 15 of Atonement Trail
She’d made her decision sometime between leaving the O’Hara ranch and falling asleep in her newly painted bedroom. The restoration division wasn’t just a good opportunity—it was the answer to a prayer she hadn’t even known she’d been praying.
Marcus called at nine exactly.
“Dylan. Decision day.”
She stood in her bay, looking at the Ferrari she’d perfectly repaired, at Ralph teaching Danny some arcane trick with a torque wrench, at Aidan through the office window, bent over paperwork with that concentration that made him look younger, more vulnerable.
“Thank you for the offer,” she said, the words coming clear and certain. “But I’m going to stay in Laurel Valley. I’ve had a better offer here.”
There was a pause. Then a chuckle. “O’Hara made you a better offer? Smart man. He knows talent when he sees it.”
“You know Aidan?”
“I know of him. The Pinnacle’s reputation reaches beyond state lines. If he’s offering you a restoration division, you’d be a fool to turn it down.”
“How did you?—?”
“It’s the logical next step for a shop like his. And with you running it? You’ll have more work than you can handle within a year.”
After she hung up, Dylan stood for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision settle into her bones. But it wasn’t a heavy weight—it was an anchor, something to build on, something to keep her steady while she built something that mattered.
She knocked on Aidan’s office door.
“Come in.”
He looked up from his paperwork, and she saw the question in his eyes.
“The answer’s yes,” she said simply. “To the restoration division. To the partnership. To staying.”
The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise after a long night—bright, warm, and full of promise.
“We should talk terms,” he said, but he was already standing, already moving toward her.
“We should,” she agreed, but she was smiling too, and for the first time in thirteen years, Dylan Flanagan felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Not running toward something or away from it, but standing still long enough to build something worth keeping.
Chapter Six
Tuesday evening painted Laurel Valley in shades of amber and rust, the October sun slanting through the mountains like it had all the time in the world. Dylan stood before her bedroom mirror, second-guessing her third outfit change and wondering when she’d become the kind of person who cared what she wore to a business dinner.
The burgundy sweater won—soft cashmere that Sophie had talked her into buying last year, insisting everyone needed at least one piece of clothing that made them feel powerful. Dylan had thought power came from competence, from skill, from being indispensable. She was learning it might also come from the way fabric moved against skin, the way color brought out hidden warmth, the way choosing to look beautiful was its own kind of bravery.
Her phone buzzed. Aidan—Outside in five. We’re walking—Main Street’s too perfect tonight to waste.
Through her window, she could see him already waiting on the sidewalk below, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, head tilted back to study the sky like he was reading tomorrow’s weather in tonight’s clouds. Something about the way he stood—patient, comfortable, unhurried—made her chest tight with a feeling she refused to name.
The stairs creaked under her feet, each sound familiar as her own heartbeat. Five years of these stairs, but tonight they felt different. Tonight she was descending toward something more than dinner, more than business, more than the safe boundaries she’d maintained since arriving in Laurel Valley with nothing but grief and a determination never to need anyone again.
“Hey,” Aidan said when she emerged, his smile warm as October sunlight. “You look—” He paused, seeming to catch himself. “Ready to make questionable business decisions?”
“The most questionable,” she agreed, falling into step beside him.
Main Street stretched before them like a Halloween catalog come to life. Every storefront had embraced October with the fervor of true believers—corn stalks standing guard like scarecrow sentinels, pumpkins arranged in families of orange and white, wreaths woven from branches and berries that whispered autumn’s secrets to anyone who passed close enough to hear.
The Lampstand glowed at the street’s heart, its windows fogged with warmth and the steam of comfort food that had been drawing people for three decades. Through the glass, Dylan could see the Tuesday night regulars at their usual tables—the Martins celebrating their weekly date night, Bernie Watson holding court with his farming cronies, the book club ladies dissecting their latest romance novel with the intensity of scholars parsing ancient texts.
“Nervous?” Aidan asked as they approached the door.
