Chapter 5
Nolan
I tell myself I’m not checking my phone. I tell myself I’m not waiting for the video to go live. That I’m just looking over the Mustang’s paperwork like a responsible adult who doesn’t let some wide-eyed woman crawl under his skin.
All lies.
I’m sitting on the stool in the office at Clover Canyon Autos, late as hell, staring at the dark rectangle of my phone screen like it owes me answers.
The stall lights are still buzzing above the Mustang. She’s sleeping. Sally’s Jeep taillights vanished into the woods nearly an hour ago, but somehow her presence still echoes through the place, lingering like her scent, vanilla and wildflowers.
A scent that shouldn’t be driving me this crazy.
I rub the back of my neck hard. This is stupid. I should clock out. Go home. Sleep.
Instead, my thumb wakes the phone. No new texts. Not that I expected any. Not that I wanted any.
A small icon flashes at the top: New upload from Mustang Sally.
My pulse kicks. It’s just a video. A clip. Footage. Nothing important.
I open it anyway.
Her bright, nervous voice fills the office speakers, a little breathless in a way that punches me right in the ribs.
“Attempt number one at reviving Grandpa’s car did not go well… but that’s okay because I met the mechanic who’s apparently a night owl like me!”
I glare at the screen. I am not a night owl. I just… prefer nights. Less noise. Fewer people. Less chance of anyone noticing you exist.
The video cuts to a shot of her smiling at the camera, eyes sparkling even though she’s clearly exhausted.
“We’re going to get this beautiful beast running again. One bolt at a time.”
And there I am, out of focus in the background, lifting the hood like I’m some TV-ready grease god. The comments pile up alarmingly fast:
GarageDaddy99: who is the mechanic tho???
crank&spank: tell that man I’d let him check MY oil
TorqueMeTender: NIGHT SHIFT MECHANIC SUPREMACY
Sally_stan: he looks GRUMPY. I love him
I choke on air. Oh no. Oh no no no.
I didn’t sign up for this. I’m private. Quiet. The guy in the background who fixes what’s broken and goes home.
I replay the short video again, this time watching her.
Her cheeks pink from frustration and cold. Her eyes determined. Her smile… too much. Too soft. Too sweet. Too dangerous.
I shut the phone off and shove it into my pocket.
The garage is quiet again. Finally.
Except I can still hear her. That laugh. That bright energy that sweeps into a space and rearranges something in your chest.
I stand, needing something to do before I lose my mind and go chasing headlights down the road she drove home on.
I pop the Mustang’s hood and lean over the engine, staring at it like it might answer questions I’m not asking out loud. I breathe in the scent of old oil and metal. This is solid. This I can trust.
You fix what’s broken. You don’t ask it to feel back.
I should go home. My apartment’s ten minutes away, half-furnished and quiet as a tomb. No one waiting. No light left on.
But I don’t want quiet tonight. I don’t want that kind of loneliness.
So I walk to the side room that George lets me use.
It’s a converted office with a space heater and a generous fold-out cot against the far wall.
When I first asked if I could stay late, maybe crash some nights when I was running night shifts or just didn’t feel like leaving, George didn’t even blink.
Just said, “It’s your name on the lease after six. Make it yours.”
So I did.
The cot’s already made. Clean sheet, comfortable duvet, pillow that smells of fabric softener.
I toe off my boots and sit down heavily, resting my elbows on my knees. Sally’s voice still echoes in my head. That hope. That spark.
I’m in trouble.
I lie back, one arm flung over my eyes. The shop settles around me. It’s all familiar, but nothing about tonight feels the same.
She’s in my head. In my garage. Under my skin. And I’m sleeping here instead of going home because the second I walk into that empty apartment, I’ll have to admit what I already know.
Sally’s not just here to fix a car. She’s going to wreck everything I thought I wanted.
And for the first time in years, I don’t think I mind.
Footsteps echo in the entry bay as I make coffee the next morning—solid, confident, familiar. I look up.
George. She’s in coveralls, hair twisted into a messy knot, and she already has a smear of grease on her cheek.
“You’re here early,” she says. “Again.”
“Slept on the cot. Worked late,” I mumble, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“You brood late,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
She leans against the fender of a truck I’m fixing, crossing her arms. Her engagement ring catches the light and flickers like a spark plug. Her fiancé, Beckett, is head of security at Havenridge Ranch.
“So.” She drags the word out until it becomes a statement. “How did it go with Sally? Heard you had a dinner date at Spur and Spoon last night.”
I grit my teeth. George is not subtle. “Jesus, is nothing private in this town? And it was not a date. Sally is a customer.”
“A customer who had you almost smiling, according to Wanda.” Her eyebrows rise. “I didn’t think those muscles still worked.”
I glare.
George is unfazed. “Wanda said there was a… spark between you.”
“Wanda needs to mind her own damn business, along with the rest of this town,” I mutter, shooting her a pointed look.
George purses her lips. “I knew Hank, Sally’s grandpa. He was a good man. He and Dad were friends. Hank and his wife, Josie, raised Sally when her parents died. When Josie passed, it was just Hank and Sally. They doted on each other.”
I nod abruptly. “It’s clear she loved him a lot. And he left her his most precious possession.”
George’s expression softens. “And that matters to you.”
I look away. “It matters.”
George steps closer. “So you can help with the Mustang?”
I lift my gaze to hers. “I can. I will.”
She nods approvingly as if I’m talking about more than the car. “I know things didn’t work out for you in Tangle Creek. But don’t push Sally away because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Sure,” she says, patting the Mustang’s hood affectionately. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She moves toward the tool wall and grabs a few items, tucking them into a battered canvas bag.
“I’m heading out to Havenridge,” she says. “Some old baler’s eating its own drive belt. You’ve got the place to yourself if you want to stay on and work.”
Then, over her shoulder: “Don’t break the girl or the car, West. Both of them deserve better.”
She disappears through the side door.
Silence again.
I sit back on my heels and stare at the Mustang’s exposed heart. It’s easier than acknowledging the one in my own chest, acting like it’s brand-new equipment.
I don’t do crushes.
I don’t do longing.
But when I close my eyes, I see Sally smiling at the diner, and something inside me turns over.
I swear under my breath and get to work before my brain gets me in trouble.
By late morning, I’ve already put in a parts order—fuel lines, new plugs, gaskets, filters, just in case. Most of it’s overkill. But I’d rather have what we need than lose momentum while Sally’s here.
I work on Caleb Cutter’s truck, sweep the bay, restock the rag bin, and even clean the coffee pot, which hasn’t been used for anything but dust collection since George went full thermos.
By the time I sketch out a rough plan for the night—replace fuel lines, test the starter, inspect the electrical system—I’ve circled her name three times on the notepad.
Sally.
Three times. Like a goddamn teenager.
I rip the page out so I don’t look desperate and tuck the blueprint into the Mustang’s glove compartment. Safe from prying eyes.
Especially mine.
The shop is finally dark except for the security lights. The Mustang sits there like a silent promise of a life I never pictured wanting. A future that looks less like running and more like… staying.
I reach out and trace a thumb along the fender. “I’ll take care of her,” I murmur.
I realize too late that I meant Sally, not the car.
Which is precisely why I’m in trouble.
Time crawls toward 7 PM like thick molasses. Every minute, I check the door. Every hour, I replay the way she said I’ll be here.
When her headlights sweep across the bay, I breathe for the first time all day.
Sally steps into the garage, hair pulled up, camera bag slung over her shoulder, hope in her eyes. She smiles as if seeing me matters.
“Hi,” she says.
And just like that—I’m done. Absolutely, irreversibly done for.
“Let’s get to work,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady enough to hide the war inside me.
Because I know two things for sure now:
I can fix her car.
And I cannot—will not—let anything break that smile.