Page 14 of Dirty Mechanic
But my head’s fuzzy, and my legs are loose, and if someone so much as sneezes in my direction right now, I’ll collapse like a poorly assembled lawn chair. Or maybe, he could pull me into one of those rough, grounding hugs that smell like motor oil and home.
“Fine. Walk me there.” My speech is slurred and dreamy. Too dreamy.
We walk. Or rather, I stumble, and Derek adjusts his pace to make it look like it’s not a whole thing. I try to stand tall, but my body’s conspiring against me, so I push up my chin—right as the sidewalk tilts.
Derek’s hand is there before I realize I’m falling, warm and firm against my arm, grounding me like he’s been doing it for years.
And maybe he has.
“Well,” he murmurs, amused, “this is gonna be an interesting walk home.”
“Motor-Inn,” I correct, even as I lean just slightly into his grip.
He grins. “Sure, Honeycrisp. Whatever helps you sleep.”
The Motor-Inn looms in front of us like a sad punchline. The neon Vacancy sign buzzes half-heartedly overhead, flickering like even it doesn’t believe in second chances.
Derek doesn’t say a word as I dig for the key I picked up from George. He just watches, expression unreadable, with my suitcase full of evidence still in his hand.
“I got it,” I mumble.
I absolutely do not got it.
The key refuses to cooperate. My fingers refuse to listen. And just as I start to curse under my breath, I pivot way too fast and walk straight into a wall of man.
His chest is broad. Warm. Infuriatingly steady.
And there it is. That scent of motor oil and home. Plus whiskey.
His hands land on my shoulders, steadying me, and suddenly, we’re so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my cheek. My pulse jackknifes.
His grip tightens just enough to make me feel safe and secure. Just enough to make me want to fall apart.
“You sure you don’t want me to check for spiders?” he murmurs, the word ‘spiders’ landing like every fear I’ve tried to flush from my veins. His voice teases with a dark dare.
And I…want to say yes.
God, I want to scream yes.
Yes to the spiders. Yes to the bed. Yes to him staying, to him touching, to him unraveling me the way only Derek can.
But I can’t.
I won’t. I’m still a married woman on paper.
“Honestly?” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I’m just tired.”
He holds my gaze, not pressing, just seeing, like he’s measuring how deep I’ll let him in. I brace for accusation, but he drops my hand, and the empty space feels like ice.
“Good night, Mr. Fields,” I say, because I’m a coward and I don’t know what else to do.
His mouth twitches. “Good night, Honeycrisp.”
The nickname lands softer this time. Almost fond.
I slip inside. By the time I lock the door behind me, my legs feel like half-used jacks, and my heart feels like someone left the ignition running. I press my forehead against the cool wood. My pulse is still erratic, my breath shallow.
It’s just the whiskey, I tell myself.
