Chapter 17 Under the Hood
UNDER THE HOOD
NATE
Iwalked toward Gideon's garage, keys to Dad's sedan jangling in my pocket like a promise that today wouldn't end in automotive disaster. The converted barn looked exactly like what it was—weathered siding and oil-stained concrete that had seen better decades but still had good bones underneath.
I could hear voices before I reached the open bay doors, the low rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional clank of metal on metal and what sounded suspiciously like someone singing along to classic rock.
My steps slowed involuntarily, because there was something about approaching Evan in his element that made my stomach do acrobatic routines worthy of a gold medal.
Probably because his element involved getting his hands dirty and looking stupidly competent while doing it.
I paused at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the garage's dim interior.
Evan was bent over Dad's car like he was performing surgery, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that definitely hadn't looked like that when we were eighteen.
The past six years had been kind to him in ways that made my brain short-circuit and my mouth go dry.
When had he gotten so... substantial?
His shoulders moved under his flannel shirt as he worked, muscles shifting in ways that suggested he'd been doing more than just pushing pencils and attending town council meetings. The sight was hypnotic, educational, and probably illegal in several conservative states.
I was definitely staring. Definitely drooling, at least metaphorically. Definitely having thoughts that had no business existing in a friendship that was already complicated enough without adding sexual tension to the mix.
“You planning to stand there all morning, or are you actually coming in?”
The voice wasn't Gideon's—too young, too amused, carrying the weight of someone who'd caught me red-handed in my appreciation of Evan's mechanical prowess.
I looked up to find a stocky guy with a buzz cut and permanently grease-stained hands grinning at me from where he was bent over the engine of what looked like a vintage Camaro.
Heat crawled up my neck as I realized I'd been caught gawking like a teenager at his first strip club.
“Sorry,” I said, stepping into the garage proper. “Didn't want to interrupt the artist at work.”
“Artists,” the guy corrected with a laugh. “Plural. This here's a full-service operation.” He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. “Cal Harker. And that tall drink of brooding silence over there is Mason.”
I followed his gesture to where a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair was methodically sanding what looked like a car door, coffee thermos within easy reach. Mason glanced up long enough to give me a nod before returning to his work with the focus of someone who found peace in repetitive motion.
“Nate Harrington,” I offered, because apparently we were doing introductions. “And thanks for letting me crash your... whatever this is.”
“Brotherhood of amateur mechanics and professional time-wasters,” Cal said with mock solemnity. “Very exclusive membership. Very high standards.”
Evan glanced up from the engine bay, and his smile was soft around the edges, pleased in a way that made my chest do stupid things. Like he was happy to see me, happy that I'd come to watch him fix my dad's car like some domestic god of automotive repair.
“Almost done,” he said, voice carrying that rough quality that meant he'd been concentrating. “Just need to top off the coolant and she should be good as new.”
“Better than new,” Gideon added, emerging from what looked like an office space with a clipboard and that weathered expression he wore like armor. “That hose was original equipment. Been waiting to fail for about five years now.”
“See?” Cal said, gesturing vaguely at the assembled mechanics. “Full-service operation. We don't just fix your car, we predict its future mechanical failures. Very forward-thinking.”
“Psychic mechanics,” I said, playing along because there was something infectious about Cal's easy humor. “That's definitely going on Yelp.”
“Don't give him ideas,” Mason said without looking up from his sanding. “He's already convinced half the town he can diagnose engine problems by listening to the radio.”
“I have a gift,” Cal protested. “An ear for automotive distress. Very scientific.”
“Very something,” Gideon muttered, but there was affection in his gruff tone that spoke of years of working with Cal's particular brand of chaos.
Watching them banter felt like being invited into something private and precious—the easy camaraderie of people who'd learned to work together, who trusted each other's competence even when they mocked each other's methods.
“So what's the damage?” I asked, pulling out my wallet because there was no way this repair was actually free, despite Evan's protests yesterday.
“On the house,” Evan said before anyone else could answer. “Friends help friends, remember?”
The casual way he said it made my throat tight with emotions I wasn't ready to examine. Because that's what we were doing, wasn't it? Learning how to be friends again, how to exist in each other's orbit without the weight of history crushing us both.
Even if watching him work made me want to do decidedly unfriendly things to him.
“At least let me buy lunch,” I said. “For all of you. It's the least I can do.”
“Now that,” Cal said with a grin that transformed his grease-smudged face, “is an offer I won't refuse. Been working since six this morning and I'm about ready to eat my own boots.”
“They're steel-toed,” Mason added helpfully. “Might be tough to digest.”
“I have strong teeth,” Cal shot back. “Years of practice chewing on stubborn bolts and Gideon's dubious life advice.”
“My life advice is excellent,” Gideon protested. “It's your listening skills that need work.”
Evan straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans in a gesture that should not have been as attractive as my libido was insisting it was. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest, and I had to actively remind myself to breathe like a normal human being instead of a hormonal disaster.
“There's something different about you,” I said without thinking, the observation slipping out before my brain could edit it into something less personal.
Evan's hands stilled on the rag, and for a moment I thought I'd crossed some invisible line we'd drawn yesterday. But then his expression shifted into something curious rather than defensive.
“Different how?”
“You're talking more,” I said, because now that I'd started this conversation I might as well commit to the crash landing. “I mean, you always talked to me, but now you're... I don't know. Less careful about it. Like words don't cost you something every time you use them.”
“Maybe I found better reasons to use them,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made my chest tight with recognition.
Before I could figure out how to respond to that—or whether I should respond at all—Cal clapped his hands together with the decisive air of someone who'd decided enough meaningful glances had been exchanged for one morning.
“Right then,” he said. “How about that lunch? I know a place that does a decent burger and won't ask too many questions about why we all look like we've been wrestling with automotive equipment all morning.”
“All of us?” I asked, because I definitely didn't look like I'd been wrestling with anything more challenging than my own inappropriate thoughts.
“You're part of the crew now,” Cal said with a shrug that suggested this wasn't up for debate. “Anyone who brings Evan coffee and watches him work without getting in the way is automatically inducted into the brotherhood.”
“Plus,” Mason added without looking up from his sanding, “Cal needs someone new to explain his terrible automotive metaphors to. We've all heard them too many times.”
“My metaphors are artistic,” Cal protested. “Poetic, even. Remember when I compared that transmission rebuild to a complicated dance?”
“You compared it to interpretive ballet,” Gideon said dryly. “And then you demonstrated. There are some things a man can't unsee.”
“Brotherhood of amateur mechanics?” Evan asked, eyebrow raised in amusement as he gathered his tools.
“Don't knock it,” Cal said seriously. “We meet every Tuesday for beer and complaints about how they don't make cars like they used to. Very exclusive membership. Very high standards.”
“What are the standards?” I asked, playing along because the warmth in Cal's eyes suggested this was more than just casual banter.
“Must be willing to hold a flashlight without complaining about the angle,” Mason recited like he'd done this before. “Must understand that sometimes the right tool for the job is a bigger hammer.”
“Must bring snacks to Tuesday meetings,” Cal added with theatrical gravity.
“Snacks?”
“Critical component of any successful organization,” Gideon said with the dead-serious expression that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or not. “How else are we supposed to fuel the intellectual discussions about carburetor maintenance and the proper way to curse at stubborn bolts?”
Evan was grinning now, the expression transforming his face into something younger and infinitely more approachable. It was the smile I remembered from high school, when he'd let his guard down enough to find genuine amusement in the absurdity of teenage life.
“You're all insane,” I told them, but there was no heat in it. “Completely, utterly insane.”
“Sanity's overrated,” Cal said cheerfully, already heading for what I assumed was the hand-washing station. “Now come on, before I actually do start eating my boots. Mason's daughter will never forgive me if I die of starvation on her watch.”
“Your daughter?” I asked Mason, who was finally setting down his sandpaper.