Page 13 of Welded Defender
I half expect them to start quizzing me on my life, but they don’t. They just fold me into the rhythm of the day as if I’ve always been here.
"Alright," Landon says, turning back to me. "Let's get you started."
He slides a stack of intake forms across the counter, his fingers splayed against the paper. I lean in as he points to each field—customer name, vehicle make, service requested. The sleeve of his flannel shirt brushes against my forearm, and I find myself holding my breath, counting the freckles on his wrist instead of listening to his explanation about the computer system.
“You don’t have to memorize everything today,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “One step at a time, okay?”
My throat tightens. I nod quickly, focusing on the neat rows of paperwork instead of his steady presence at my side.
Soon the morning rush it in full swing. A woman with two kids in the backseat drops off her SUV for an oil change. A farmer comes in about a tractor part. Every time the bell over the door chimes, I flinch just slightly—but Landon is always nearby, his hand brushing past mine as he takes keys, his steady tone guiding me through the process.
By noon, I’ve managed to enter a half-dozen intakes without messing up. My hands still shake when I type, but it’s progress.
“Not bad,” Landon says quietly, setting a fresh mug of tea in front of me. His fingers linger on the counter, just a little too close to mine.
The warmth in my chest scares me almost as much as it soothes.
“Thank you,” I say. He nods, and smiles, the dimple appearing on his cheek. There’s something in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles that makes me want to lean into his warmth. But I don’t. I force my eyes away and sit back behind the desk, forcing myself to focus on my work. Or at least I pretend to focus.
The shop quiets to a gentle hum after the lunch rush. Wes struts between the tool cabinets juggling three wrenches like he was a clown in a past life. Joon vanishes into one of the bays beyond the partition while Becket hunches over a rusted blue Chevy. His broad shoulders curve like a protective shell, fingers moving with surgeon-like precision among the engine's guts. Landon's boots scuff against the concrete as he returns to my desk, a manila folder of dog-eared invoices clutched in his oil-stained fingers.
I notice it when I reach for the mug Landon left. My hand doesn't wobble as I lift it to my lips. The tea doesn't ripple against the ceramic. I type a customer's phone number without having to delete and retry. When I hand back a receipt, the paper doesn't flutter between my fingers like a trapped moth. Around me, the garage hums—metal against metal, Wes's laughter, the radio's low croon—and somehow I'm part of that rhythm now, not fighting against it. It’s a feeling I’ve missed. Being apart of something. It’s small, but it’s a feeling I want to hold onto for a while.
CHAPTER 9
Landon
Marcy’s laugh filters in from the front desk. She’s only been at the garage for a couple of days but it feels like she’s always been here. She’s taken to the job like a fish to water. She’s a natural with the customers and things are running smoother than they ever have. The guys have all taken to her. Wes is his constant goofball self and Joon’s soft carefulness seems to keep her at ease. Ravi and Becket are around less but both of them have had nothing but good things to say about Marcy being at the shop.
We still haven’t gotten to fixing her car. We got behind on the others ahead of her, and then our parts suppliers decided to have a shortage on half the things we needed. But Marcy hasn’t complained. But her car’s up next. Part of me wants to drag my feet more on fixing it but that wouldn’t be fair to her.
Marcy's laugh rings out from the front desk again. My wrench slips, and I catch myself staring through the doorway where she's leaning against the counter, head tipped back, while Wes gestures wildly with his hands. Her smile reaches all the way to her eyes when she looks at him.
My chest tightens. I turn back to the truck on the lift, twisting the wrench with more force than necessary. The rusted brakeline creaks in protest. One wrong move and it'll snap clean through, just like the one I broke yesterday when one of the men coming through the shop asked for Marcy’s number. It’s not like she’s mine to claim. If she wants to give someone her number, that’s her right. Just like if she enjoys spending time with Wes. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t kill me a little each time someone else decided to shoot their shot with her.
“Landon, you spacing out again?” Becket’s voice drifts from the other bay.
“Just thinking.” I keep my tone flat, neutral, and duck under the frame to tighten a bolt.
“Dangerous habit,” he mutters.
He’s not wrong. Thinking too much is what gets me into trouble. Especially when all I can think about is the woman at the front desk.
I’ve been trying to keep my distance. Telling myself to leave her be. Hovering won’t do her any favors—she doesn’t need me shadowing her every move. But the caveman in me still hasn’t gotten the memo.
My ears stay tuned to every sound from that front room. Every page of the logbook she flips, every jingle of the bell over the door. I’ve got grease on my hands and a wrench in my palm, but all it would take is one sharp note in her voice, one shift in tone, and I’d drop it all without thinking.
And I hate that about myself. Hate how quickly I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping her steady.
The first hint of trouble is the tone—too loud for the small lobby, too certain he’s about to win. My wrench freezes mid-turn. I grab the rag from my back pocket, wipe the worst of the grease from my fingers, and find myself moving toward the doorway before I've decided to. I press my shoulder against the metal frame, half-hidden where the fluorescents don't quite reach.
Phil Henderson leans over the counter like he owns it. “Two hundred and seventy for an oil change? Come on.”
Marcy's shoulders square under her navy sweater. "It wasn't just an oil change." Her finger traces each line on the invoice, pen cap tapping against the paper with quiet precision. "Filter replacement. Fluid top-off. Tire rotation. Brake inspection." The pen stops at the final figure. "And this—" a firm tap that leaves a small blue dot "—is shop time."
Phil's lips curl back from his teeth. "Shop time." He leans closer, cologne mixing with the faint scent of motor oil. "That's code for let's fleece the customer, sweetheart."
A muscle jumps in my jaw. Marcy’s expression barely changes—just the smallest tilt of her chin. “We don’t use pet names here,” she says calmly. “Mr. Henderson, I can print the inspection photos if you’d like. Your brake pads are thin. We didn’t replace them today—that’s a separate cost—but if you want to book that, I can put you in for Thursday morning.”
