Page 3 of Truck Hard

But it’s safe. Far enough from the shop that she won’t have to see me unless she wants to, but close enough that I could be there in minutes if she needed help.

If she’d ever ask for it.

The phone in my hand suddenly feels heavier. That message is still out there, probably sitting unread on her phone. Soon she’ll see it, and then what? Will she think I’m angry with her? Will she assume I’m hostile, just another man trying to intimidate her? The thought makes me sick.

I should go to her. Explain about the message. Ask about Cameron. Clear the air that’s been growing thick between us for thirteen years.

But as I watch her disappear from view, I remain rooted to my spot. The weight of our shared history, of my mistakes and her trauma, pins me in place like a butterfly in a display case.

Movement in the shop draws my attention back to reality. Mac is waving, trying to get my attention through the window. Probably another customer needing approval for repairs. The mundane responsibilities of running a business don’t stop just because my personal life is imploding.

I stand, straightening my shirt and trying to school my features into something resembling professional composure. But as I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes again. My heart leaps into my throat as I check the screen.

It’s just another text from Ash.

Ash

Traffic on 23. Be there in 20.

I let out a breath. The message to Hannah still shows as delivered but unread. Like a bomb waiting to go off, or a chance at redemption I’m not sure I deserve.

Outside my office, the shop continues its morning rhythm. Tools clang, engines rev, voices call back and forth across the concrete floor. Life goes on, even when it feels like everything important is hanging by a thread.

I step out of my office, phone heavy in my pocket. Whatever happens next—with Hannah, with Cameron, with that damn message—will have to wait. Right now, I have a business to run and brothers to manage.

But as I walk toward Mac and his waiting customer, I can’t help glancing toward the window. Just down the road, she’s trying to rebuild her life from the ashes Charlie left behind. And somewhere in my heart, I’m trying to find the courage to face the consequences of choices made thirteen years ago.

The morning sun continues its climb, casting shorter shadows across the shop floor. Another day in Beaver, Ohio begins. But nothing feels quite the same anymore.

My stomach churnsas I stare at the message, still marked as delivered but unread. Hannah’s been through hell. She’s tryingto rebuild her life, and I unintentionally sent her a message calling her an asshole.

Fuck. Why am I still sitting here?

I surge to my feet, nearly knocking over my chair. Warren and Mac jump back as I barrel past them, out of the office and into the shop. The morning sun streams through the high windows, catching on chrome and steel, momentarily blinding me. But there—through the open bay doors—a familiar figure walks up her driveway.

Hannah.

The morning light catches in her hair highlighting the golden streaks through the mass of dark strands. It’s just how I remember her. The way she looked when we’d sneak out at dawn, thinking we were being so clever. My heart clenches at the memory of those simpler times, when our biggest worry was getting caught by her dad or Grams.

Now look at us. Both our lives are in shambles.

She’s carrying something—boxes maybe. I should... I need to...

“Liam?” Mac’s voice seems to come from very far away. “These parts?”

“Later,” I mutter, already moving. My boots crunch on the gravel of the parking lot as I head toward the road. Hannah hasn’t noticed me yet, too focused on managing what looks like several moving boxes stacked precariously in her arms.

I’m halfway down the road when the boxes shift and start to slip. Without thinking, I break into a run.

“Here, let me—”

Hannah whirls at the sound of my voice, boxes tumbling. Her eyes go wide with fear—real, visceral fear—and my stomach drops.She thought I was him. For a split second, she thought I was Charlie.

“Sorry!” I freeze in place, hands raised. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The fear fades from her eyes, replaced by something else. Recognition? Relief? Maybe something more? But then she blinks and her expression shutters closed.

“Liam.” Her voice is steady, controlled. Too controlled. “What are you doing here?”

---