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 brake line 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. ”
Phil shifts, thrown off by how unbothered she is. “I’m not paying this today. I’ll settle up next week.”
“Policy is payment on pickup,” she replies, sliding the terminal closer. “We take debit, credit, or I can set you up with a two-instalment plan. First one clears today.”
He leans farther over the counter, crowding her space. “Or I wait for the owner and talk to him.”
My jaw clenches tight enough to crack a molar.
Three strides and I'm beside the desk, my palms landing on the wood with a soft thud.
The muscles in my forearms cord as I lean my weight forward.
"You're talking to my front desk." The words barely rise above the hum of the shop behind us, but Phil's eyes flick to mine, then drop. "What she says is shop policy."
Phil barks out a laugh he thinks sounds confident. “Well look who it is. Thought maybe I can get a reasonable answer.”
“She gave you a reasonable answer,” I say. My tone stays level, but I shift enough that there’s no way he can keep leaning over her. “Card or instalment plan. Your choice.”
Across the counter, Marcy’s eyes cut to me—surprise, then heat. I ignore it and hold Phil’s stare.
He wilts first. “Fine.” He slaps his card down. “Run it.”
I slide the terminal back to Marcy, and she completes the sale, professional as ever. The slip prints; she tears it clean and sets it before him with a pen.
“Signature at the bottom,” she says. “Thank you.”
Phil scribbles so hard the pen digs through. He pockets the card, scoops up the keys, and stomps out. The bell jangles, the door swings shut, and the lobby exhales.
For half a heartbeat, I think we’re good.
Then Marcy looks at me. “I had it handled,” she says. Not loud. Not sharp. Just precise enough that it lands harder than a shout.
The words hit the place in me that’s been coiled since this morning. “He was crowding you.”
“And I was handling it.” She sets the terminal back in its cradle, movements neat, contained. “He was paying.”
“He wasn’t paying until I—”
Her eyes flash, steel-grey steady. “He was about to. You stepping in told him I needed you to fix it.”
The counter edge presses into my palms. I force myself to ease off it, to breathe. “I didn’t like the way he leaned over you.”
“I didn’t like it either,” she says, softer now, but she doesn’t look away. “But I need to be able to handle my own fights. Especially the easy ones.”
Easy. Phil Henderson. I huff out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Phil’s not easy.”
“He was today.” A beat. “Let me have the win.”
My jaw tightens. I rub my palm over my bearded jaw and nod once. "You're right." The words scrape my throat like I've swallowed a handful of pennies. I want to step closer, but plant my boots firmly where they are. "I'm sorry. I should've waited until you asked."
She nods. “Thank you."
We stand there, the hum of the shop threading between us—impact gun whining, radio faint through the bay door. I want to reach out, to touch her wrist, to show I wasn’t trying to take anything from her, but I keep my hands at my sides.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, quieter, “you were… really good. Phil’s been making a sport of dodging us for years. You read him clean.”
Something like pride flickers through her. It softens the line of her mouth. “Thanks.”
From the doorway, Wes appears like he’s been there long enough to catch the vibe, but not the words. He lifts his brows, grin cocked. “Phil pay without a blood sacrifice?”
I nod. “Miracles do happen.”
“Only if that miracle’s name is Marcy,” Wes winks.
Marcy ducks her head but I don’t miss the blush that seeps up her neck into her cheeks.
Wes leans towards her. “If you can make him book his brake job too, I’ll personally name my firstborn after you.”
“Please don’t,” she says, but she’s smiling for real now.
Wes salutes and vanishes back through the bay door.
Marcy gathers the signed slip, lines it up with the invoice, and slides both into the “Paid” tray. She’s careful about it, like order is a way to keep the ground level.
I make myself step back. “I’ll—uh—be in bay two if you need anything.”
She tilts her head. “If I need you, I’ll ask.”
“Right.” I nod once more, absorbing the boundary. “I’ll wait to be asked.”
As I turn away, she calls after me. “Landon?”
I glance back.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the backup. Just… next time, let me try first.”
I nod. “Deal.”
By the time the sun starts dipping, the shop slows down. Wes leans against the counter, sipping the last of his coffee like it hasn’t been sitting around for hours.
“I’m making sweet n sour meatballs tonight,” he announces. “Is everyone coming to eat?”
He aims it at all of us, but his eyes flick toward Marcy.
She hesitates. For a second, I almost think she’ll say yes. But then she shakes her head, polite but firm. “Thanks, Wes. That’s nice of you, but I think I’ll just head upstairs tonight.”
Wes doesn’t push, just shrugs. “Offer stands. Anytime.”
She gives him a small smile, gathers her things, and heads for the door.
“I’m gonna head home too,” Joon says. “I want to come in and get started on Marcy’s car early.”
“Trying to get rid of her already?” Wes teases.
Joon rolls his eyes. “Just trying to be helpful. I’m happy for her to stay as long as she wants.” He tosses a wave and heads out.
I exhale, scrub a hand over my face, and grab my jacket. Wes leans against the counter, drumming his fingers on the laminate as I zip up halfway.
"You coming home?" His voice stays light, but his eyes follow me a beat too long. “You look like you could use an early bed time. Those bags make you look closer to eighty than thirty-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Jeeze, thanks."
He grins. “Anytime.” He shoves open the door. “Don’t take too long, I can't promise there will be any food left if you do.”
I grunt in reply and push through the door into the chill evening air. My boots echo on the stairs as I climb to the apartment above the shop. I stand outside her door for a second, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no clatter of dishes—just the faint hum of the old fridge inside.
I raise a hand and knock gently.
A beat later, her voice: “Yeah?”
"It's me," I say. "Just checking in."
The door opens a crack, then wider. She's standing there in an oversized gray sweater that slips off one shoulder, her hair pulled back in a messy knot that leaves wisps framing her face. Her fingers grip the edge of the door, knuckles slightly white.
"I'm fine," she says, the words coming out in a rush of breath.
I nod, plant my feet a step back from her threshold. "Just thought I'd ask."
Her grip on the door loosens. The line between her eyebrows smooths, and the corner of her mouth lifts, just barely. "Thanks, Landon."
I shift on my feet, suddenly too aware of the narrow space between us. “If you need anything, anything at all, just call or text me. I left my number on your fridge last night.”
She smiles. “I noticed. I already added you to my phone.”
“Alright.” I step back, giving her the space she asked for earlier. “Have a good night, Marcy.”
“You too.”
She closes the door gently, and I stand there a second longer, staring at the wood grain like it might tell me what she’s really thinking. Then I force myself to turn and head back down the stairs.
Becket’s locking up the shop when I come back around.
“I thought you already left,” I say.
“Was finishing up paperwork.” He nods toward the apartment window above us. “You checking on her?”
I don’t answer right away. He doesn’t really need me to.
Becket exhales slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Be careful, man. She’s a sweet girl, and I’m glad she’s got a steady gig here, but she’s been through a lot.”
"And?” My voice comes out flat, but my pulse picks up.
His eyebrows climb. “And you’ve got a habit of hauling in lost causes, sticking by them till you get burned.”
My jaw clenches. Memories flicker: Allie calling at two A.M. in tears, the rent I fronted Tessa while she promised to pay me back “next week” for six months straight; endless rides to Rachel’s cognitive therapy sessions. I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the knot in my chest.
“She’s not a lost cause,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
His face softens. “Yeah, I know. Sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. Just…look out for yourself, okay? You’re one of the best guys I know, but you dive in headfirst whenever someone needs saving, and you end up getting knocked around.”
“This isn’t the same,” I protest. “I’m not dating Marcy.”
“But you want to be.” He shakes his head before I can interrupt. “You don’t get to deny it—I’ve known you since grade school. I can read you.”
I grit my teeth. “Is there a point?”
“Just don’t forget to protect yourself once in a while.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads for his truck.
I frown. “I haven’t been on a date since Rachel and I split. I’m not exactly a serial heartbreaker.”
He stops at the tailgate, lights from the garage sign haloing his shoulders. “Sure—you’re not hopping from one train wreck to the next. But when you do date, you always go for the damsel in distress.”
“Marcy’s not a damsel.” I hate that I’m defensive.
“Maybe not. She’s got grit—I’ll give her that.
She’s got a plan, she’s paying her own way.
But she’s vulnerable, fresh off a bad relationship, who knows how long she’s sticking around?
” He turns to me, eyes steady. “I don’t want to see you get hurt ’cause you swoop in to save her—and she might not need saving. ”
“I don’t swoop.” I mutter.
He snorts. “Dude, you swoop more than a superhero.”
I rub my temples. “Okay, okay, I get it.”
“Do you?” His tone is gentle, but firm.
I meet his gaze. Air freezes in my lungs. Then I let it out in a long sigh. “Yeah. I get it.”
Becket nods once and climbs into his truck. “I’ll tell Wes to save you some dinner.”
I watch his taillights vanish into the night.
Above me, the apartment window glows warmly through the blinds.
Becket’s right. I’ve tripped over more that my share of broken romances.
It’s been two years since my last real relationship.
Two years since I swore off getting pulled into someone else’s chaos again.
Am I about to slip back into that pattern? Do I even care?
I climb into my cab, the engine rumbling beneath me. One last glance at the window, soft light spilling into the night. Then I pull away, the question spinning around in my head as the garage’s neon buzz fades behind me.