Page 67 of Speed Crush

In twenty-eight years, I’ve never once worried about making a good impression on a girl’s parents. Never cared whether they liked me. Never rehearsed what I was going to say. Never tried to prove I belonged.

But with June...

I want them to see that I’m worth the space I’m asking for in her life.

In the end, I went with coffee—because if they’re going to sign off on sending their daughter to Europe with a man they barely know, they should at least be awake for it. Plus, a box of pastries, still warm from Main Street Bakery. Simple. Respectful. Sincere.

Because I’m not just here to flirt with their daughter.

I’m leaving for HQ this weekend.

That’s why I’m here this morning. Because if I wait too long—if I lose the momentum of what we shared last night—and June might pull back.

And I can’t blame her.

So before I ask her to come with me, I need to show her parents—and her—that I’m serious.

That I’m not just some guy passing through.

That I see something real here.

With her.

Cedar Crest Customs hums with the low sound of a compressor and classic rock playing from an ancient speaker. Smells like grease, engine oil, and something sugary from the back office—someone's baking, and my stomach growls.

And June—

She’s already here.

Grease-streaked. Glowing. On her back under a jacked-up pickup, boots sticking out, voice humming along to the music like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

I don’t announce myself. Just watch for a second. Because this—this is the part of her I’m starting to love the most.

She belongs here. And it kills me in the best way. Because all I want is to be allowed into this world she’s built. To prove I can belong here too.

She scoots out, wiping her hands, and stops short when she sees me.

“Hey there! You’re early,” she says, surprised.

I smile. “Told you I’d come.”

“Right... for an oil change, sir?" she arches her brow, teasing.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here for you.”

She blushes. Tries to hide it by looking away.

That’s when I notice we’re not alone.

A few mechanics are already in the garage, working like clockwork—someone tuning a carburetor near the back, another checking tire pressure on a lifted Jeep. One of them glances up, then does a double take.

And then—

"Holy shit. It’s Noah Verelli!"

Tools clatter. Heads pop up. And suddenly I’m surrounded by grease-smudged, wide-eyed adrenaline junkies with smirks that say they’re trying to keep it cool and absolutely failing.

“What’s F1 doing at Cedar Crest Customs?” one of them calls out, grinning. “You got something your engineers couldn’t solve without some small-town help?”

---