Page 10 of Welded Defender
I don’t look up from her hands as I ask, “You want to tell me why you were out there instead of in a warm bed somewhere?”
Her shoulders rise, then fall. “The Airbnb was more than I thought. The cleaning fee—” She stops, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter. I’m an adult and can sleep where I want.”
I exhale slowly. Pride. She’s clinging to it like a life raft. I get it. I’ve done the same.
“You could’ve told me,” I say.
Her eyes flick up, sharp. “And what? Let you feel sorry for me?”
“Not pity,” I say, meeting her gaze. “Concern.”
She pulls her hands from mine and finally reaches for the mug. She curls her fingers around it and stares into the amber liquid.
The shop phone's shrill ring cuts through the silence and I hear Joon answer. A few moments later he pokes his head in the back. "Nova's other job needs her all day today. Something about someone’s kid getting sick." He taps his pen against the work order board where six tickets already hang. "We're on our own."
I nod, already running through the list of things that need to get done. “We’ll manage.”
The phone rings again and the morning is already off to a hectic start. I leave Marcy with her tea next to the heater. Soon Joon and I are getting elbows deep in grease. I force myself not to check in on Marcy. I don’t want to crowd her. After last night I don’t want to scare her off. Especially if I need to convince her to let me help her find a place to spend the night.
It's a couple hours later before Joon and I head back to the lobby to grab fresh coffee. We stop short when we get inside. I blink twice, wondering if I've walked into the wrong shop. My fingers trace the counter where coffee rings and grease smudges used to overlap like crop circles. The credit card reader gleams. Joon bumps into my shoulder, his eyes fixed on the magazine rack where last month's Auto World sits at a perfect right angle to Mechanic's Monthly instead of spilling onto the floor. Even the welcome mat, worn thin in the middle from years of boot traffic, has been coaxed back into its proper place, the frayed edges tucked neatly against the doorframe.
And on the desk? The scattered avalanche of papers has been tamed into tidy stacks. Marcy is perched in the chair behind the counter, pen between her fingers, flipping through the last few pages like she’s on a mission.
I lean a hip on the counter, watching her. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
Her shoulders lift in a quick shrug, eyes still on the paper. “I didn’t want to just sit here like a lump while you were working. Figured I could at least make myself useful.”
Joon whistles low. “Useful is an understatement. This desk hasn’t looked like this since… ever.”
She glances up, a hint of color in her cheeks. “Guess I’m just good at making order out of chaos.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You looking for work?”
Her head snaps up. “No?—”
“Because I could use someone who can catch things like that. You could run the front desk, keep the books straight, help with ordering. Work off what it costs to fix your car.”
Her brows knit. “What about your sister? I thought she worked here?”
“Nova’s been filling in as a favor until we find someone new. Even if you only take the job for a couple weeks she won’t mind the break. You won’t be stepping on any toes.”
She looks behind me to Joon and back again. “Landon, I?—”
“You can use the bachelor apartment upstairs,” I cut in. “It’s empty. Warm. Close to the shop. Joon used to live there but he got a bigger place.”
Her lips part, then close again. She runs her thumb along a chip in the mug's handle, nail catching on the rough edge. The tea inside ripples with her trembling. Her gaze darts to the window where her car sits, frost still clinging to its windshield.
"Think of it like a trade," I say, tapping my knuckles once on the counter. The sound makes her flinch. I soften my voice. "Your organizational skills for us fixing your car. And a room where the temperature doesn't drop below freezing."
For a long moment, she stares at her hands, her jaw working like she's chewing on her pride. Then she nods—small, almost imperceptible. "Okay.Deal.”
CHAPTER 7
Marcy
Icarry the grocery bags, trying not to trip on the narrow staircase that wraps around the side of the garage. My legs burn halfway up, but stubbornness won’t let me ask Landon for help—not when he’s already carrying my overpacked suitcase like it weighs nothing. God, I’m pathetic and most definitely need to work out more.
“This way,” he says, nudging the door at the top with his shoulder. The hinges squeal, and the smell of dust and old wood rushes out.
