Page 20 of Carrick
“Oh, is this the new, improved version?” I arched a brow. “With 50% less glowering?”
“Fifty-five,” he said. “Don’t undersell me.”
A laugh caught in my throat—quiet, surprised. Not because he was funny, but because he tried. And the effort was magnetic. Like something rough-edged and war-worn, still learning how to soften enough to be touched.
It made me want to bolt.
And—just as fiercely—it made me want to stay.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch when my gaze drifted over him. The lines around his mouth held stories; the tension in his shoulders carried memory. He didn’t speak like someone used to being heard—he spoke like someone who’d learned to wait. To listen. To scan every room for threat before stepping inside it.
That should’ve scared me.
It didn’t. It steadied me.
I meant to reach for the doorknob. I did. But my hand hovered—stalled—and his eyes dropped to it like he could see the exact beat where my certainty faltered.
He stepped just a fraction closer—enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
“Sleep,” he said, that same gravel-threaded tone curling around the word. “You’ll need it.”
I wanted to bite back. To tell him I didn’t need looking after, didn’t need permission to survive my own life. But none of that was true tonight. Not with the ache in my chest I couldn’t name, and a heat in my blood I couldn’t explain.
He took a step back, then another. His retreat was deliberate, but his eyes lingered for one breath too long, like he hadn’t decided yet whether to leave.
And when he did—when he finally turned the corner and took that heavy, grounding presence with him—I was left staring at the place he’d been, furious that a man I barely knew had managed to see me clearer in three days than most people had in my entire goddamn life.
6
Carrick
The soundof metal tapping against metal pulled me from sleep. Not Sully’s cast iron chaos, or the subtle creak of Deacon’s midnight pacing—this was sharper, more precise. Mechanical. Intentional.
I knew that sound. Felt it in my spine. Tools. On a car. My car. It wasn’t just noise—it was a warning.
Groaning, I rolled out of bed, ribs throbbing like they’d been stomped on by a mule. A week out from the blast and the bruises still sang with every breath. Pain was constant background music in my life, but today it played louder than usual. I shrugged into a hoodie and shoved my feet into boots. No coffee. No patience. Just suspicion, pulling me forward like gravity.
The scent hit next. Coffee, strong and bitter, bleeding in from the kitchen. But beneath it was the thick, sweet tang of motor oil. Out of place. All wrong.
The garage door stood cracked. Daylight spilled through.
And there she was. Bellamy. On her back, beneath my Charger, legs stretched out, boot heels braced against the concrete, a socket wrench clutched in one grease-smeared hand.
Not the project car. Not something safe to touch.Mycar. Jacked up. Hands on it like she belonged there.
Legs stretched out like she owned the place, socket wrench in one hand, with a drip pan strategically positioned beneath the belly of my baby. Her hoodie sleeves were shoved up to her elbows, revealing forearms smudged with grease and confidence.
She looked like she belonged there—and that pissed me off more than it should have.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe I was still asleep. Or maybe I’d hit my head harder than I thought during that last op. But then she moved, smooth and deliberate, and the sound of metal clicking against metal began again. Definitely real.
“What theactualhell are you doing?” My voice came out rough, more gravel than a question.
She didn’t jump. Didn’t flinch. Just kept twisting like I was background noise. “You’ve got an oil leak,” she said, tone breezy. “Rear main seal, probably, but I figured I’d start with the pan and work my way up.”
I blinked. The nerve. The sheeraudacity.
“Youfigured?” I echoed, stepping further in. “Youfigured, while elbow-deep in a car that isn’t yours?”
