Chapter 1
The envelope in her jacket pocket pressed against her ribs with each step.
Pacific Custom Restoration’s latest offer, delivered yesterday with a deadline that felt more like a countdown.
Marcus Rowan had even included photos of the shop—pristine bays, state-of-the-art equipment, a paint booth that made her current setup look like a child’s crayon box.
Her phone buzzed—speak of the devil. She let it go to voicemail. Marcus would call again. And again. Men like him always did, unable to understand that not everyone was motivated by the same things that drove them.
By the time she reached The Pinnacle Garage, the sky had shifted from black to deep purple, the mountains emerging from darkness like slowly developing photographs.
The garage occupied a converted warehouse on the edge of downtown’s deliberately maintained charm, its modern lines a stark contrast to the Bavarian fantasy behind her.
She unlocked the side door with her key, breathing in the familiar scent of motor oil and metal, possibility and purpose.
The lights flickered on, revealing her kingdom—six bays, each one currently occupied, tools arranged with military precision, the concrete floor so clean you could perform surgery on it.
Her corner called to her—the 1970 Plymouth Barracuda she’d been resurrecting for three months sat there like a purple jewel, waiting for the final touches that would bring it back to life. She’d always been able to see what it could be beneath the rust and neglect.
She ran her hand along the hood, checking the paint she’d applied yesterday.
Perfect. Plum Crazy purple, exactly as Chrysler had made it in 1970, with a white racing stripe that ran down the center like lightning frozen in time.
Mrs. Morrison would cry when she saw it—they always did when they saw their past restored, made better than memory.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She could resurrect dead cars but couldn’t seem to fix her own life.
Couldn’t stop herself from checking the time, knowing that in exactly one hour and forty-five minutes, Aidan O’Hara would walk through that door, and her carefully controlled world would tilt on its axis the way it did every morning at seven fifteen.
Dylan grabbed her creeper and slid under the Barracuda, checking the fuel line one more time.
The undercarriage told its own story—decades of Montana winters, salt scarred and weather beaten, now restored to better than new.
She’d sweet-talked old-timers from here to New Mexico for original parts, haunted junkyards like a grieving relative, learned the exact pressure required to wet sand paint until it became liquid color.
Her phone rang again. This time she pulled herself out from under the car and answered, if only to stop the insistent buzzing.
“It’s not even seven, Marcus.”
“Dylan, finally.” His voice carried that particular Seattle intensity—urgent, caffeinated, important. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’ve been working.” She wiped her hands on a shop rag, already knowing where this conversation was heading. “The answer’s still the same.”
“You haven’t heard the new offer.”
“I don’t need to—”
“Ten thousand signing bonus.” He paused, letting the number settle between them like a challenge.
“Plus full relocation, your own restoration bay, and first pick of projects. You’d be lead specialist, Dylan.
The work you’d be doing—museum-quality restorations, cars that belong in collections.
Not just keeping tourists’ rentals running. ”
Dylan closed her eyes. Ten thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. She could stop checking her bank balance before buying groceries. Could maybe even think about a future that consisted of more than just getting through each month.
“I’m driving down today,” Marcus continued. “I’ll be there by noon. Just give me an hour to show you what we’re offering. You’re too talented to be hidden away in a tourist town.”
“Marcus—”
“I’m already in Spokane. Noon, Dylan. The Lampstand. Just lunch and conversation.”
He hung up before she could protest, leaving her standing alone in the garage that suddenly felt smaller than it had five minutes ago.
Through the open bay door, she could see Laurel Valley waking up.
The sun had crested the mountains now, turning the town into something from a postcard—perfect, contained, impossibly beautiful.
Soon the streets would fill with tourists clutching cameras and lattes, searching for the authentic mountain experience that Laurel Valley had perfected selling them.
She returned to the Barracuda, focusing on the engine that gleamed like jewelry under the hood. This was what she was good at—taking something broken and making it whole, bringing the dead back to life, creating beauty from rust and neglect.
The rumble of a truck in the parking lot made her look up. Seven o’clock—Ralph arriving for his shift, right on time. Soon the garage would fill with noise and work and the comfortable chaos of a business day.
Dylan tucked the envelope back in her pocket as Ralph burst through the door, his energy preceding him like a wave.
“Morning, sunshine!” he called out, his voice echoing in the empty space. His walrus mustache twitched with amusement. “Beat me here again. You trying to make the rest of us look bad?”
“Sleep is overrated,” Dylan said, falling into their familiar banter.
Ralph was somewhere north of fifty, had been turning wrenches for thirty years, and treated everyone in the garage like they were part of his extended family. His salt-and-pepper hair was already escaping from under his cap.
“You finish the Morrison car?” He came over to admire the Barracuda, letting out a low whistle. “Man, that paint job is perfect. She’s going to flip.”
“That’s the idea.”
“You ever think about opening your own restoration shop?” Ralph asked, running his hand along the car’s lines. “You’re too good to be working for someone else.”
The envelope seemed to burn in her pocket. “Maybe someday.”
“You’ve been saying that for two years.” He grabbed his coveralls from his locker. “Danny and I have a bet going. He thinks you’ll be here forever. I think you’ve got bigger plans.”
If only he knew she’d been saying maybe someday in every shop she’d ever worked in. It was easier than saying the truth—that she didn’t know how to stop moving long enough to build something permanent.
“Speaking of Danny, where is he?” she asked, deflecting.
“Running late. His baby kept him up all night. Teething or something.” Ralph stroked his mustache sympathetically. “Thank God my kids are grown. I’d forgotten what those sleepless nights were like until he started coming in looking like the walking dead.”
Dylan smiled despite herself. Ralph had three grown kids and five grandkids, and his toolbox was plastered with their pictures. Roots. Family. The kind of permanence that both terrified and fascinated her.