Page 48 of Dirty Mechanic
The late afternoon sun filters through the kitchen window, warming the flour-dusted air. I’m barefoot, apron-clad, and elbow-deep in cinnamon sugar glaze for the last batch of pies. Tomorrow is May Day, and I’m behind. The sweet buns cooled too fast, and the braided apple bread didn’t rise the way I wanted. But the house smells like a memory: warm, bright, safe.
Floorboards creak behind me, a sound I’m coming to recognize like a heartbeat. When I turn, there he is, stretching like a cat, hand grazing his jaw, stubble catching the light.
Derek.
We returned home late last night after Emma’s false labor scare. I’d gone with them to the hospital and back, and we returned exhausted and without a baby.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough from sleep. “Smells incredible in here.”
Just like that, an ache blooms low in my belly.
I hand him a mug of coffee. My fingers brush his, and the contact crackles like a live wire. He doesn’t step away. I turn back to the counter, but I feel him—chest against my back, his breath warming the curve of my neck.
“Made it strong,” I say lightly. “Figured you’d need it.”
“I need you more.”
The words land like heat in my veins. He doesn’t backpedal. Doesn’t laugh it off. Just sets the mug down and wraps one arm around my waist, lips grazing the side of my throat.
“Derek…”
“You smell like vanilla and sunshine…and something that makes it real damn hard to be a gentleman this time of day.”
My body leans into his before my mind catches up. His hands slide to my hips, steady and grounding.
I should pull away. Should remind myself that nothing is real until the divorce is final. Until Mike is out of our lives. But right now?
I don’t want space.
I want him.
But under the heat and hunger is a ripple of fear. Because wanting something this much? It’s dangerous. That’s how it all started. At eighteen, trying to escape Huntz, I boarded a bus with a scholarship and a lie, and wound up in San Francisco, watching my life slip through someone else’s fingers.
Outside, tires crunch on gravel.
We spring apart like teenagers caught in the act.
Derek glances through the window. “It’s your brother. And Emma.”
I groan and scrub a hand down my face. “She better not be in labor again.”
He chuckles.
We head out. Emma waddles toward me in flip-flops and glory, glowing like a summer moon with a bun in the oven and zero patience for drama.
Eric flanks her, protective as ever. His eyes sweep over me, calculating. Not just assessing for Emma’s sake, but for mine, too. Like he knows a storm’s building and wants to make sure I have a life raft.
“Hey,” I say, voice catching.
Emma pulls me into a gentle hug. “Thanks for your help last night.”
“Of course,” I murmur. “You’ve got a flair for the dramatic. That baby’s got your timing.”
She smirks. “We figured we’d fill you in properly.”
We linger in the yard. Emma updates us on the baby. No real changes, though the doctor may induce after May Day. Eric grumbles about chickens escaping again and the baby goats they adopted yesterday. It feels like normal—like spring and hay bales and quiet joy.
Emma’s fingers land gently on my forearm. “You seem far away.”
