Page 79 of Dirty Mechanic
She lifts her chin and shakes her head. “Nah-ah. These knees are locked until linens and Pitocin are involved.”
I laugh. “Good. Because I am not doing another surprise delivery tonight.”
We trade the kind of look only two exhausted, competitive women can—half-respect, half-exasperation—and I swear, in another life, we might’ve been friends earlier.
Derek’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “You didn’t just deliver a baby in the woods,” he murmurs, low and proud. “You delivered a whole damn miracle.”
We slow as we cross the square. The booths are empty now, abandoned pie tins and crumpled napkins scattered like confetti. Lights twinkle under the eaves of the Big Barn. The air smells like rain and cider and something sharp—something I can’t quite name.
That’s when I hear it.
The low rumble of an engine.
I turn just in time to see the red Chevy roll past the square, slow and smug. Two silhouettes in the cab. Mike in the driver’s seat, posture oozing arrogance. Rick in the passenger side, cleaner cut but no less poisonous. Both of them watching us like they already know the ending to a story they wrote in blood.
My stomach flips.
Derek’s grip tightens on my waist, and I feel his breath hitch.
They cruise past like wolves just out of reach of the firelight—watching, waiting, calculating.
I track them until the taillights vanish around the bend, my body a wire pulled too tight.
“They’re not gone,” I whisper.
“No,” Derek says beside me, his voice flat. “They’re waiting.”
And in that cold, loaded silence, the air thickens with threat. I feel it crawl beneath my skin. Hear it whisper against my ribs.
And I realize, the gun may not be enough to stop them.
By the time we make it back from the woods to the town square, Eric’s got one arm around Emma and the other balancing a carrier with the squawkiest newborn I’ve ever heard. Kid’s lungs are Olympic-grade, and his glare? Already mastered. Eric packs them in his grandfather’s truck, Suzy, and they drive away.
“I think the baby flipped me off,” I mutter, rubbing a phantom ache from my shoulder.
“He did.” Annabelle’s still laughing as she brushes off her skirt. “With surgical precision.”
A familiar giggle cuts through the music. Annabelle’s mom’s laughing at something Blake said as she balances baby Albert on her hip. They’re giving Eric and Emma time to settle in with the baby.
Annabelle slips free from my hand for just a second, hurrying toward her family like gravity pulled her home.
Her dad hugs her tightly. Her mom presses a kiss to her temple. Baby Albert gurgles something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
And I just stand there, watching this woman I love hold everything she once thought she lost.
Last light filters through the treetops. The scent of kettle corn and cinnamon swirls through the square as we pass vendors closing shop. Kids dart between booths, face paint smeared, dragging oversized prizes behind them on string leashes. A bluegrass band strums from the barn ahead, luring couples toward the open doors where strings of lights hang like stardust. The race is an hour away.
Everything feels…good.
Whole.
“I still can’t believe you delivered him,” I say, catching her hand in mine. “You’re like a nurse-midwife-superhero hybrid. Apple pies optional.”
She shrugs, eyes a little shinier than usual. “It was messy. Beautiful. And terrifying. But I’m glad I was there. I’ve missed too much already.”
She stops at her pie booth, or what’s left of it. A few crumbs and empty pie plates scattered like confetti. Her hand smooths a crooked tablecloth, but I can tell she’s not really looking at it.
“And now I’m an aunt again,” she adds, voice dipping just a little. “I forgot how good that feels. And soon, you’re going to be a grandpa.”
