Page 21 of Carrick
She slid out from under the chassis, slow and casual, and sat up on her heels. Her dark leggings were dusted with grime. A streak of black arched across her cheek like war paint. She didn’t bother to wipe it away.
Her eyes met mine, steady and unbothered. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
I muttered a curse under my breath.
“This oil leak is criminally negligent,” she called out without looking at me. “Honestly, Carrick, if I didn’t know better, I’dassume you committed this atrocity on purpose. As a cry for help.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You diagnosing me, or the engine?”
“Both,” she said, sliding out just far enough to squint up at me, a streak of grease cutting across her cheek like war paint. “One of you needs a rebuild. The other needs therapy. You pick.”
I chuckled, shaking my head as I stepped closer.
I crouched beside her, ignoring the protest in my ribs as I took in the perfectly arranged tools, the smear of grease on her cheek, and the way her fingers moved with confident precision over the open engine bay.
“If I hadn’t already seen you elbow-deep in a carb rebuild, I’d swear this was an elaborate hallucination. Librarian by day, auto surgeon by night?”
She didn’t look up. “Women contain multitudes, Carrick. Try to keep up.”
“You alphabetize murder mysteries for a living, and yet you just referred to my oil leak as ‘criminally negligent.’ Give me a second to adjust here.”
She reached for the socket wrench with practiced ease. “You left your garage door open. I couldn’t sleep. I needed a distraction. And the condition of your engine was personally offensive.”
“Offensive?”
“An insult to internal combustion,” she said, deadpan. “Honestly, I should’ve reported you to the EPA.”
I shook my head, glancing at the engine again—clean lines, polished clamps, not a hose out of place. “So you fix busted fuel lines and Dewey Decimal systems with equal ruthlessness. Have I got this right now?”
She finally looked at me. “Built a Firebird with my foster dad when I was seventeen, remember? She ran like a dream. Until he got sick.”
The quiet in her voice made my chest tighten. Not sadness—just reverence. A kind of memory you didn’t speak of often, unless it was earned. I didn’t press. Just nodded and passed her the torque wrench like we’d done this a hundred times before.
“Still,” I said after a beat, “you’re not wrong. I do have a hero complex.”
She glanced up again, lips twitching. “And I’m a librarian with a power tool fetish. Welcome to character development.”
I gestured toward the oil filter with a tilt of my chin. “You replacing that next?”
“Already did. That’s the old one.” She wiped her hands on a rag, not meeting my eyes this time. “I’m not incompetent, Carrick.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
She gave me a once-over that felt surgical. “But you thought it.”
“I assumed. Big difference.”
She tossed me the wrench. I caught it one-handed.
“Assuming makes you sound like a jackass,” she said lightly. “Also, your rear shocks are soft. You should check your bushings.”
“God,” I muttered. “Are you always this much?”
She grinned. “Only before coffee.”
Somewhere between insult and compliment, we settled into a rhythm—one that mirrored yesterday’s, but with roles reversed. I stayed low beside her, handing over tools, occasionally tossing out torque trivia questions just to see if I could trip her up. I couldn’t. She hit every answer without hesitation.
Every movement was smooth, unshowy confidence, skill and instinct braided into something effortless. She wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t trying to impress. She simply moved like she belonged here. And that kind of competence was rare.
