Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
T he early morning sun cast long shadows across Ella’s Subaru as Tom leaned under the hood, sleeves rolled up and engine grease streaking his forearms. He was so focused on wrestling with the stubborn mounting bolts of the old starter that he almost missed the telltale sound of multiple footsteps approaching. Almost.
“What’s this then?” Gareth’s voice boomed across the quiet street. “A mechanical crisis requiring immediate Highland intervention?”
Tom didn’t look up. “It requires nothing of the sort.”
“Nonsense!” Liam bounded over like an eager puppy. “Everything’s better with a proper Scottish touch. Did I ever tell you about my grandfather’s method for fixing plows back home?”
“We’re not hitting anything with a hammer,” Tom said preemptively.
“A good whack never hurt any machine,” Gareth insisted, already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Aiden, fetch my special repair hammer from behind the bar.”
“We are not hitting the engine,” Tom’s voice carried the weary patience of a man who’d had this argument before. “Modern cars require modern solutions.”
“Modern, pah!” Gareth waved dismissively. “Back in Scotland?—”
“Pretty sure cars work the same way there as they do here,” Tom couldn’t help pointing out, though his lips twitched at their predictable enthusiasm.
“I’ll have you know Scottish engineering is world-renowned,” Gareth huffed, peering into the engine. “Though I still say a good horse is more reliable.”
“Horses don’t have starters to replace,” Tom muttered, but he felt his lips twitching despite himself. The MacGregors had that effect on people - wearing you down with their particular blend of charm and stubbornness until you found yourself smiling at their absurdity.
Aiden returned from the pub carrying not just a hammer, but what appeared to be an entire toolbox. His normally stoic face held a hint of apology as he set them down.
Tom watched as Aiden rolled-up his sleeves and revealed forearms corded with muscle and marked with the telltale burns and scars of a man who shaped metal for a living. The way he handled the tools with a craftsman’s easy precision, combined with the knowing glint in his eyes as he glanced under the hood, made it clear he’d spent his fair share of time working on engines despite his primary trade being at the forge. But even as Tom recognized these signs of mechanical aptitude in the tall Highlander, he wasn’t going to help fix this car.
“Now then!” Gareth rubbed his hands together like a man about to perform surgery. “First, we’ll need to?—”
“Ye’ll want tae mark where the shims are before ye pull that starter,” Aiden suggested quietly, his eyes fixed on the mounting bolts Tom was working on. “They tend tae stick tae the housing and fall when ye least expect it,” Aiden said quietly.
Gareth leaned over the engine. “Nonsense! The connections need testing first.”
“Actually,” Liam chimed in, practically bouncing with excitement, “I saw this brilliant thing on YouTube. All you need is a potato and some?—”
“If you put a vegetable anywhere near this engine,” Tom warned, “you’ll be walking back to Scotland.”
“It could work though.” Liam’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did you know potatoes have natural conductivity? I read all about it online.”
Tom turned back to the engine, determined to focus on the task at hand. The new starter sat waiting to be installed, a simple job that shouldn’t require an audience. Especially not an audience with such creative mechanical theories.
“Aha!” Gareth’s voice boomed triumphantly. “Here’s your trouble, lad. This bit’s all crusty.”
“That’s the oil cap,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “It’s meant to look like that.”
“Are you certain? In my considerable experience?—”
“Your experience with cars or with oil caps specifically?” Tom asked dryly.
A moment of surprised silence fell over the group. Then Aiden’s quiet voice broke it: “He has a point, brother. You did once try to feed oats to Liam’s Aston Martin.”
“That was one time,” Gareth protested. “And the manual said it needed fuel.”
Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I appreciate the... enthusiasm. But I’ve got this handled.”
“You want to be the one to fix her car,” Aiden observed softly. “To take care of her yourself.”
Tom’s denial died in his throat at the knowing look in Aiden’s eyes. The man might be quiet, but he noticed everything.
“Fine,” Gareth relented, though his eyes twinkled. “We’ll supervise. That’s what family does.”
“You’re not my?—”
“Close enough.” Liam settled onto the curb like he was preparing for a show. “Now, about that potato...”
Despite his frustration, Tom felt warmth spreading through his chest. The MacGregors were impossible, overwhelming, and completely exhausting. But they were also loyal, caring, and determined to claim him as their own. It was... nice, in an irritating sort of way.
He managed to install the starter with only minimal interference - three unsolicited suggestions, two heated debates about modern versus traditional repair methods, and one failed attempt by Liam to “improve” things with duct tape and what suspiciously looked like sage leaves.
When he finally turned the key and the engine purred to life, satisfaction coursed through him. He’d done this. For her.
“Well done, lad!” Gareth’s enthusiastic back slap nearly sent Tom headfirst into the hood. “Though a wee tap with the hammer might’ve?—”
“If you say one more word about hammers,” Tom warned, but there was no heat in it.
“Just trying to help.” Gareth’s expression softened into something almost fatherly. “After all, you’re family too. Soon to be blood, whether ye like it or no’.”
Tom watched them head back to the pub, Liam still extolling the virtues of root vegetables in modern mechanics while Aiden quietly disposed of suspicious herbs. Their laughter drifted back to him on the morning breeze, and he found himself smiling.
The car was fixed. Ella would be pleased. That’s what mattered - not the MacGregors’ chaos or their knowing looks or their impossible hints about family.
Though he had to admit, as he cleaned his tools and listened to the brothers bickering their way back into the pub, being claimed by these impossible Scotsmen wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a person.
Even if they did think hammers could fix everything.
And potatoes.
God help him, he was actually starting to love these ridiculous men.
Tom drummed his fingers against the Subaru’s steering wheel, scanning the nearly empty school parking lot. He’d arrived early enough to beat both the staff and the parade of minivans that would soon descend. The car purred contentedly—he’d checked everything three times this morning, unwilling to risk even the slightest hiccup. His fingers traced the edges of her keys in his pocket as he made his way toward Room 23.
Soft morning light spilled through the classroom windows, painting golden rectangles across the worn hardwood floors. The familiar scent of chalk dust and coffee drifted into the hallway, along with the sound of humming. Tom paused in the doorway, struck by the sight of Ella arranging books in the reading nook. Her blue dress caught the early light, making her seem to glow. A streak of chalk dust marked one cheek, oddly endearing against her sun-warmed skin.
Her hair was twisted up in what he assumed was meant to be a practical bun, though wayward strands had already escaped to curl against her neck. The urge to brush them back made his fingers twitch.
“Quite the security risk you’ve got here,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Unguarded door, distracted teacher...”
Ella spun, her smile bright enough to rival the morning sun. “Tom! I was just about to call you about the car.”
“Already handled.” He held up her keys, trying to ignore how his heart rate picked up when she crossed the room toward him. “New starter installed, battery connections checked. She’s running perfectly.”
A hint of something floral and fresh—her shampoo maybe—teased his senses as she reached for the keys. Her fingers brushed his palm, sending an electric current up his arm that had nothing to do with car maintenance.
“What do I owe you?” she asked, her voice softening.
“Not a thing.” He cut off her protest with a small smile. “Friend discount.”
“Friends don’t let friends work for free.”
“Friends also don’t argue about car repairs before proper caffeination.” He nodded toward her travel mug. “Speaking of which...”
“Oh! Here—” She turned to pour him a cup, her movements quick and sure. “The MacGregors sent over this amazing blend?—”
“Of course they did.” But he couldn’t help smiling as their fingers brushed during the handoff. This time, neither pulled away quite as quickly as they should have.
“I really can’t thank you enough.” Her voice had gone soft again, doing strange things to his chest. “For the ride, fixing the car, checking everything...” She gestured vaguely with her free hand. “All of it.”
Tom watched a stray curl fall across her forehead, fighting the urge to brush it back. She looked so right here, surrounded by children’s artwork and morning light. Like she belonged. Like maybe?—
He shut that thought down hard.
“Just maintenance,” he managed.
“It’s not though.” Her eyes held his, seeing too much. “You didn’t have to help, but you did. You do that a lot, you know. Help without being asked.”
He shifted, uncomfortable with her perception. “Force of habit.”
“Well, it’s a good one.” Her smile turned teasing. “Even if the MacGregors did try to ‘assist’ with hammers.”
He groaned. “You heard about that?”
“One of the parents was coming out of the bookstore and told me about it.”
“They’re impossible.”
“But well-meaning.” Her laugh wrapped around him like warm honey. “Like someone else I know.”
Before he could process that, voices in the hallway announced the arrival of early students. Tom stepped back, suddenly aware of how close they’d been standing.
“I should go. Security checks.”
“Right. Of course.” Was that disappointment in her voice, or just wishful thinking?
He reached the door, then turned back. “Ella?”
“Yes?”
“If you need anything else...” He cleared his throat. “Maintenance or... anything. Let me know.”
Her smile hit him square in the chest. “I will.”
Walking down the hallway, Tom could still feel the phantom warmth of her fingers against his palm, still catch hints of that floral scent that was uniquely her. He told himself he was just being helpful, just looking out for a friend.
But the image of her stayed with him—backlit by morning sun, chalk dust on her cheek, fitting so naturally into this life, this town. The way she might fit into his life, if he let her.
If he was brave enough to try.
He touched the spot on his coffee cup where her fingers had brushed his, and for once, didn’t try to talk himself out of the warmth spreading through his chest.
Some things, it seemed, were worth the risk of hoping.