6. Chapter 6
six
Sadie
The worst part about being new in town?
No friends.
Or at least, not many.
Amy had fixed that fast by inviting me to hang out with her two best friends and promising I’d fit right in. I’d been nervous, sure, but five minutes in and I already felt like I’d known them for years.
They were all just a bit older than me, but that only meant they were way cooler and had better wine.
We were at Mel’s place. Her boyfriend was off at the clubhouse with Beck and the guys, so it was just us girls.
And there was wine.
Glorious, fruity, dangerously drinkable wine.
After the week I’d had of moving, painting, baking, and accidentally trapping myself with a grumpy mountain of a man, I needed it.
Diesel had sat in my kitchen in complete silence for two full hours while glitter epoxy dried around us.
He also ate three more cookies.
One of each.
Three.
A resounding five-star review from the Grumpiest of them all.
“So,” Amy said, dramatically topping off my glass, “she’s trapped with Diesel for hours. I wander over to see what’s holding him up, and I swear I thought they might be otherwise occupied.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
I groaned. “The man is infuriating.”
Amy just smiled like she knew something I didn’t.
Mel and Kate wore the same damn look.
“What?” I asked.
“You,” Amy said, pointing directly at me, “Sadie Winslow, are in trouble.”
“What?” I blinked.
“You have it bad, hon,” Kate agreed.
“Uh, no, I don’t.” I could feel the blush rising fast.
Being paler than a porcelain doll had its drawbacks. Mainly, everyone could tell when I was full of shit.
Mel tilted her head, looking at me like she’d just found the last puzzle piece. “Oh yeah. Bad bad.”
“Listen,” Kate said, swirling her wine. “Diesel’s a charming guy. Handsome. Good with his hands—” She let that hang with a wicked grin.
Amy jumped in, fingers flying up. “But seriously. He’s a good guy. He’s only been here a couple of years. Beck says he moved for personal reasons. And I mean… a guy like that? Doesn’t call something ‘personal’ unless it’s a woman.”
“I don’t think he’s interested,” I muttered into my glass.
Amy just laughed.
“Oh, he is,” she said, ticking off on her fingers. “One—Wrecker’s been giving him hell over you. Threatening to ask you out if Diesel doesn’t ask you out. Two—he’s, like, two percent less grumpy. I think I actually saw him smile after that cinnamon roll. And three?”
She leaned in.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Was Amy right?
No. She was just being nice and being a friend.
That grouchy mammoth of a man wasn’t interested in me. Not really.
Sure, he ate the cookies. Sure, he helped with the walls. Sure, he looked at me sometimes like he was thinking very not polite things… but he could very well be plotting my demise.
It could really mean anything.
Men like him didn’t look twice at women like me. Not unless they needed a coffee or a carb.
I smiled and took another sip of wine, but my chest felt tight anyway.
Diesel
Enough was enough.
No more daydreaming about perfect pink curls or heart-shaped curves bouncing under cupcake-print dresses.
I’d spent two hours in her kitchen yesterday, and it led to dreams I wouldn't be admitting to anyone.
Not even under threat of death.
I walked into the garage early and headed straight for the custom rebuild I was doing for Noah. The man had dragged in a rusted-out heap of a bike he’d found in a junkyard and challenged me to make it shine again.
He could get her running, no doubt—he was a mechanic across town, and a damn good one. But Noah was a car guy.
I was a bike guy.
I could make her beautiful.
I unrolled a sheet of tin foil, dunked it in the water bucket, and started working on the rusted chrome. You’d be surprised what a little elbow grease and tin foil could fix. Most guys would go straight to a grinder or sandpaper, but there was a finesse to it, a patience.
At least that was something I understood.
What I didn’t understand was why my gaze kept drifting to the dark bakery across the street.
It was Saturday. Maybe she was taking the day off.
But she’d gone on and on—talking the whole damn time we were stuck in that kitchen—about opening next week. Her voice had filled every inch of space like warm air. Like cinnamon and sunlight and glitter-covered chaos.
I didn’t understand people who had to talk just to fill the silence.
The world was full of noise. Constant. Cluttered. Suffocating.
Jessie had been like that, too.
I flinched, the foil crinkling under my grip.
Why the hell was she in my head?
Jessie wasn’t sunshine and cupcakes. She wasn’t smiling and had freckles and dresses with pies on them. But she talked too much. Needed too much.
She had filled the silence so her thoughts were all I would hear. She used her voice as a weapon.
Then, she also filled the silence with someone else while I was working a double shift to pay her rent.
The tin foil scraped across the chrome. Hard. A little too hard.
I exhaled and started again, slower this time.
I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
No matter how sweet the cookies were.
I wiped the chrome down with a cloth, the metal starting to shine through, clear and cold.
Mechanical. Predictable.
Not like people.
Not like her.
Jessie had been in a storm. Loud. Demanding. Always chasing something—affection, validation, whatever high she could get her hands on.
I thought I could anchor her.
I was wrong.
What I got was empty bottles in the sink, unfamiliar cologne on our sheets, and a look in her eyes that said she hadn’t thought twice about it.
That kind of betrayal doesn’t bleed out clean.
It settles. Sticks. Rusts.
I leaned back on my heels, knuckles sore from clenching the foil too tightly.
Sadie Winslow was nothing like Jessie.
But that didn’t make her safe.
She was bright. Not in the fake way. Not like Jessie’s spotlight is always hunting for attention. Sadie glowed. Unapologetic. Vibrant. Messy in a way that felt real.
Too real.
She’d talk to a potted plant if no one else were around. She probably named her plants. And her car. And her damn glitter epoxy roller.
And for some reason, that thought made my chest tighten.
I didn’t need real.
I needed quiet.
Simple. Predictable.
I stood up, tossed the used foil into the bin, and wiped my hands on a rag.
I was better alone. Always had been.
So why the hell was I waiting for the bakery lights to come on?