Chapter 27 #2
“Who cultivated this in you?” Because she didn’t learn this on Instagram, and certainly not from her father who’s been missing in action when it comes to parenting.
Roxy pauses by a black classic convertible, her fingers hovering over the hood without touching it.
“I used to play in my grandfather’s garage,” she says, her voice quieter now like she’s speaking to the space instead of me. “Not the kind of playing my father approved of.”
I take a slow step closer, careful not to crowd her. “Your mom’s father?”
She nods. “My mom’s side.” Her mouth tightens for a second before she forces it loose again. “He didn’t care what I wore. Didn’t care if I got dirty. He just… let me be there.”
The way she says let me be there makes it sound like it was oxygen. Like it was mercy.
“I’d sit on his workbench with my legs swinging, watching him polish them. He’d hand me things. Rags. Tools. Old bolts he didn’t need anymore.” Her lips twitch. “I thought I was essential.”
“You were,” I say automatically.
Her gaze snaps to mine, like she didn’t mean to invite that in.
“You still are essential,” I add. “Then and now.”
A beat passes. Then she exhales, as if letting the truth exist costs her something.
“When he died,” she continues, gesturing around us, “he left them to me.”
I scan the collection again, seeing it differently now.
Not wealth. Not a hobby. A history. A tether.
“You kept them,” I murmur.
She smiles at me, shrugging. We walk around her collection of twenty cars, and I itch to reach for her hand. That has never happened to me before.
I have never held a woman’s hand.
“I’m going to miss them.” She sighs.
“What do you mean?”
She turns her back to me. “Never mind. My grandpa wasn’t restoring them like you, though. He had people helping him. He was more of a collector. How many cars did you restore?”
I don’t push for more explanation. She’s sharing. I’m not going to push my luck. Not now. “About ten.”
“And who got you to appreciate old vehicles?”
“Growing up, we had a maintenance worker on our estate. He used to bring cars from junkyards and restore them. Save them, as he called it. I became friends with his son. I hung out in his garage a lot.” I trace the hood of a Gullwing.
“Where are the cars? The ones you saved?” She leans against a wall.
Today, she is wearing a male oversized shirt and a flapper skirt. And again, she makes it work.
“Can I see the engine?” I dare to ask, and she nods. I pop the hood open and sigh at the beauty and craftsmanship. “I sell them. Most of them, anyway.”
“No way? All that work, and you just part with them?”
I let my fingertips skim the engine bay. “I enjoy the restoration, and I prefer to hand them over to a collector who cares as much as me.”
“What about your friend? Is he also following in his father’s footsteps?”
The question is simple, expected. I opened up for it when I mentioned him myself. I swallow. “No, he doesn’t.” I flex my fingers. “Noah passed a long time ago.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” I close the hood, my palms flat on it.
I’ve been sorry about that for the past ten years, blaming myself and my father. I don’t want to spoil the moment, though, so I share something else.
“My father hated my interest. For him, it was too common. Too dirty. Not worthy of a Stone. Perhaps that’s why I loved it so much.”
She sighs. “I don’t think you would be this passionate about it if it were just to spite your father. But yeah, our fathers don’t get it. I moved these here because I worried my father would sell them behind my back.”
The sentence is calm. But I hear the fear buried beneath it.
I swallow, jaw tightening. I guess our fathers are the topic we can bond over, even though it’s the reason we can’t move forward yet.
“He still can. You’re using your name to keep the thieves away. He must know.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, exhaling. “Jesus, don’t say that.”
“We can move them to my garage,” I offer, not even thinking about it. “Tonight, if you want.”
Her laugh comes out wrong. Too sharp. Too bright. A deflection wearing mascara. “Your garage?”
“My garage,” I repeat. “My space. My locks. My security.”
She turns away too fast, walking toward the far end like she forgot something essential by a white, polished convertible. Running away from me. From the conversation.
“It’s not necessary.” But her shoulders are rigid.
Too rigid.
She doesn’t trust me. Not even with this. She would rather risk her father selling it all. Fuck.
I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to press. To confront her. But I know the more I push, the further she retreats.
Goddammit.
I eat the distance between us and wrap my arms around her from behind. “Okay, if you don’t want to.” I kiss her hair, holding her close.
She lets me. And I wish it were enough.
“Where do you go when you disappear for weeks?” Roxy asks, picking up the plates and carrying them to the kitchen.
I watch her swaying hips and take a long breath, ready to explain. But something stops me. The words are not coming out.
Earlier in the garage, she didn’t even trust me with her cars. I showed her a piece of me, and she is still holding back.
The need to hide this part of me is stronger than my newly discovered feelings for her. Part of me doesn’t want her to judge me.
Or maybe that part of my life is the life of a different person. A person unaffected by this amazing woman.
The silence stretches with my internal struggle.
Roxy returns from the kitchen and walks straight to me. When I sigh, she straddles me and cups my cheeks. “You tell me when you’re ready.”
Just like you let me take care of you. I don’t say that. “It’s just…”
She presses her finger against my lips. “It’s okay. We shared enough for one day. And it was nice to share the parts of us that bring joy.” She plants a kiss on my forehead.
She feels so good like this. A part of me. Of my life. I can’t help it. I lean her backward, supporting her back with my hands. I plant a kiss on her belly. “Little man, I’ll tell you a secret. Your mom is an amazing person. And I don’t deserve her.”
She giggles. “You most certainly don’t. And we don’t know it’s a he.”
“Let’s hope so, because the number of fuckers I would have to castrate gives me a headache already.” I pull her closer, kissing her neck.
“You’re insane.” She swats my back.
“A girl or a boy, it doesn’t matter, Thunder. With you as their mother, they are already perfect.”
She grins at me. “Sometimes you know exactly what to say.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy all the talking. Let’s fuck.”
She laughs, and then moans as I dip my face into her cleavage.
“Wait a minute? Whose shirt is this?” My cock hardens before she even answers.
She grins at me. “Yours.”
“You’ve been walking around all day in my shirt?” Why it makes me want to pound on my chest is beyond me.
Her cheeks get pink, and she deflects. “There isn’t enough room here for all my clothes.”
I kiss her. “Why don’t we look at some places to buy this weekend?”
She fidgets on my lap. “To buy?”
I nod.
She swallows. “We’re buying a house together?”
“Or a condo. Let’s see what we like.”
“We.”
“We.”
She lets out a long breath through her lips. “I don’t know… Anyway, I can’t this weekend. It’s my father’s birthday.”
I grip the fabric of my shirt on her back. “And you’re going?”