Page 27 of Atonement Trail
“Dylan,” Aidan said, and she had to turn, had to face them. Victoria looked like winter personified—beautiful and cold. Aidan looked like a man who’d found his past waiting in his present and wasn’t happy about the reunion. “This is Victoria Pemberton. Victoria, this is Dylan Flanagan, my business partner. She runs our restoration division.”
Something flickered across Victoria’s perfect features—surprise, calculation, reassessment. “Partner. How interesting.” Her gaze swept over Dylan with new interest, the kind that made Dylan acutely aware of the grease under her fingernails. “The restoration market is exploding in certain circles. Daddy’s investment group is very interested in sustainable luxury businesses.”
“We’re not looking for investors,” Aidan said firmly, moving to stand closer to Dylan. “We have everything we need.”
“Of course. But markets change, businesses grow. If you ever want to expand beyond…” she gestured vaguely at the garage, managing to make it sound like a small, backwoods shop despite its success, “…I’m here for at least a month while Daddy recovers.”
She pulled out a business card with a flourish that belonged on a stage. “My cell’s on there. It would be nice to catch up, Aidan. Seven years is a long time to leave things unsaid.”
“Some things are better left buried,” Aidan said quietly. “I hope your father recovers quickly.”
Victoria’s perfect smile faltered like a lightbulb flickering before failure. “Well. I see. Nice to meet you, Dylan.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and disappointed expectations, her heels clicking away like a countdown to complications.
Aidan stood frozen for a moment, then seemed to remember the takeout bag growing cold in his hand. “I brought soup. And those breadsticks you pretend you don’t love.”
“I don’t pretend anything about breadsticks. Our love is pure and public.”
He laughed, and the tension in the garage eased like a released breath. “I should explain about Victoria.”
“You don’t owe me explanations.”
“Yes, I do.” He set the bag on the workbench, then turned to face her fully. “We’re partners. We’re…” He paused, searching for words like a mechanic feeling for the right socket in the dark. “We’re whatever we’re becoming. You should know that Victoria and I dated seven years ago. For two years. Everyone thought we’d get married. Then she got a job offer in New York, said Laurel Valley could never give her the life she wanted. She left. We haven’t spoken since.”
“And now she’s back.”
“Temporarily. For her father.” He moved closer, close enough that Dylan could see the strain around his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything, Dylan. Not the partnership, not the restoration shop, not…”
“Not what?”
“Not the fact that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you again since the chapel ruins.”
The words hung between them like snow balanced on a branch—beautiful, precarious, ready to fall at the slightest disturbance.
“Aidan—”
“I know. I know we agreed to take things slow. I know we’re business partners. I know there are a hundred reasons why this is complicated.” His hand came up, not quite touching her face, hovering like a question. “But Victoria showing up reminded me that time passes. Opportunities disappear. People leave. And I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”
Dylan’s heart was attempting to break free from her rib cage. “Which is?”
“Like you’re the first person I want to tell when something good happens. Like the garage feels empty when you’re not here. Like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone who looks at a broken car and sees what it could become, who understands that restoration isn’t about making something new but honoring what it’s always been.”
The Ferrari engine ticked as it cooled, marking time in metallic whispers. Outside, snow continued to fall, insulating them from the world beyond the garage doors.
“I’m scared,” Dylan admitted, the words scraping past years of carefully constructed walls.
“Me too. But my grandfather always said the best things usually are scary. That’s how you know they matter.”
He was so close now she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could count the snowflakes melting in his hair. The moment stretched between them, taut as a timing belt about to snap.
“The soup’s getting cold,” Dylan said, but she didn’t move away.
“It’s supposed to be cold. It’s gazpacho.”
“It’s butternut squash.”
“Then it’s definitely getting cold.”
