Page 68 of Dirty Mechanic
He strolls in holding a takeout tray with two lemonades. Misty’s right behind him, ponytail messy, freckles bright, that usual mischievous glint in her eye as she hands Annabelle a drink.
“About time this place got some real talent,” Blake says.
Misty points to the new sign above the entrance. “Love it. Honeycrisp Pies.”
Annabelle blushes. “Me too.”
Misty wraps her into a quick, tight hug. “Congratulations. Seriously.”
Blake nudges me with his elbow and shows me his phone screen. “Race roster just updated. You’re gonna want to see this.”
I scan the list. My stomach drops when my eyes catch another name. “Richard Bishop?”
The name punches through me like ice water. Misty’s smile fades. Annabelle goes rigid.
“Bishop?” I repeat, voice sharp.
“That’s Rick,” Annabelle whispers. “Mike’s brother.”
I blink. “He has a fucking brother?”
She nods slowly. Heavily. And something shifts inside me.
Rick. The guy from the track. The one I gave pointers to last week. The one with the souped-up engine and the sleek blue ride. The one who asked suspiciously specific questions about my gearing ratios like he had a stake in beating me.
Son of a bitch.
Blake nods. “Rick Bishop signed up for the second heat. That means Mike’s racing you in the first, and if Rick qualifies in the second, he’ll face you in the finals.”
“They’re working together,” I mutter.
My blood starts to hum.
This isn’t just a coincidence. This is a strategy.
“They’re not here for the race,” I say, voice hard. “They’re here for us.”
Annabelle grips my hand. Misty stares at the floor. Even Blake’s smirk is gone.
The air shifts. The kind of shift you get right before the sky cracks open, until Blake tilts his head toward the festival grounds.
Annabelle draws a breath. Squeezes my hand. Straightens her shoulders like a woman going to war.
“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go set up.”
We climb into the truck, and I catch her looking up one last time at the sign above the bakery door—Honeycrisp Pies—her name in spirit if not yet in script.
By the time we reach the town square, the place is already buzzing. Kids in flower crowns dart between booths. Women in cowboy boots and sundresses laugh under banners strung from trees. Maypoles stand like sentinels, waiting for their ribbons.
The first event won’t start until sundown, but prep is in full chaos mode—tables clatter, tent flaps snap, and teenagers are chasing each other with buckets of confetti like it's a contact sport.
I help Annabelle unload, setting up her booth with a kind of pride that hits deeper than anything I’ve felt before. There’s a handmade sign—Fields Orchard Pies—fresh linen tablecloths, and little smudged price tags with tiny apples in the corners. She drew them last night between laughing messes and soft kisses.
She was glowing this morning. But now?
There’s a flicker in her eyes. A tightness to her smile. Like she’s waiting for something.
Or someone.
