Chapter 7
Nolan
I decide to spend the night at the workshop again.
Not because I can still smell her vanilla and wildflower scent or because the sound of her laughter still echoes off the walls. And definitely not because her blue eyes are burned into my memory.
Christ, I’m in denial.
Because it is exactly all of those things. Because the cot is hard and the air is cold, but she made this place feel warm. And because every time I look at that damn car, I see her hands on the hood and hope in her smile.
Because if I go home, it’ll be quiet, and quiet is where I think too much.
So I stay. Pretend I’m just here for the Mustang. Pretend I’m not already in too deep with the woman who brought her back to life.
When dawn breaks, I’m already up, coffee in hand, determined to submerge all these feelings under motor oil and rational thought.
George arrives a few hours later and clocks the circles under my eyes with one glance.
“You sleep?” she asks.
“No.”
“You eat?”
“No.”
“You obsess over pretty car girls with big dreams and handheld cameras?”
I scowl. “George.”
She laughs as if she expected nothing less. “Beckett asked who the lucky woman was.”
“She’s not… Beckett doesn’t… Tell Beckett to mind his own business.”
She grins wider. “He can’t. He’s nosy, like Wanda.”
I grunt into my coffee.
George nudges my shoulder with hers. “You can let someone in, Nolan. You won’t break.”
That’s where she’s wrong.
I broke years ago. I just learned how to walk around the pieces without cutting myself open again.
Before I can reply, my phone buzzes.
One new comment notification pops up about Sally’s video:
TorqueMeTender: WHEN IS THE NEXT EPISODE WITH GRUMPY HOT MECHANIC?????
George sees it over my shoulder and cackles. “She’s building your fan base. Better start practicing autographs.”
I pocket my phone with a growl. “I’m not a character in her videos.”
“You kind of are,” she singsongs.
“I’m just fixing her car,” I snap. “Not her life.”
George studies me. “Some people come into our garage needing more than repairs, Nolan. Doesn’t mean you have to run from them.”
I go still.
She’s too perceptive, too patient. She means well. She always does. But she’s wrong about Sally needing fixing. That woman isn’t broken. She’s bright. Determined. Whole.
She just needs someone to help her believe in her own strength. It terrifies me how much I want to be that someone.
George sighs. “And you’re not doing yourself any favors by running yourself into the ground.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Thanks for the pep talk, Coach.”
“I’m serious.” She jerks her chin toward the cot. “You look like hell. Go home. Shower. Sleep in a real bed. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends. That’s how engines blow.”
“I’m not an engine.”
“You’re more temperamental than one.” She crosses her arms. “And I’m not asking.”
I rub the back of my neck. The truth is, I’m dead on my feet. Every muscle aches, my eyes feel like sandpaper, and the cot’s got a spring with a personal vendetta against my spine. But I hate the thought of leaving.
Leaving the car and the space where I can still feel her.
George softens. “You’re allowed to rest, Nolan. The car’ll still be here. And so will she.”
I grunt, which is about as close as I get to a surrender.
Her grin is smug. “There. Was that so hard?”
I mutter a curse under my breath, grab my keys, and make for the door.
“I’ll be back tonight,” I tell George.
She waves me off. “You always are.”
Sally arrives promptly that evening, wearing confidence she doesn’t know she has. She walks toward me as if she has a right to be here. As if she expects me to be here too.
I am.
I was.
Long before 7 PM.
Long before I should’ve been.
“Hey,” she says, smiling like she’s glad I exist.
Dangerous. God, that smile is dangerous. And so is the woman attached to it.
“You’re always on time,” I observe.
“You told me not to be late.” She shrugs, all sunshine and enthusiasm. “I don’t want to break the rules. Not the important ones.”
She has no idea how close she is to breaking every rule I’ve ever made.
I clear my throat. “Before we start… I’ve got something.”
Her eyebrows lift. “For me?”
“For the car,” I correct too quickly. Then add, “Mostly.”
I take a small box from the workbench. She watches me like I’m unwrapping a secret.
“It’s nothing big,” I mutter. “Just… figured it was time she had a proper heart again.”
I open the box. Inside is a polished shift knob. Classic style. Solid in the hand. Custom-engraved in script that reads Mustang Sally.
Her breath catches. It’s a soft, beautiful sound that knocks something loose inside me.
“Nolan…” she whispers, fingertips hovering like she’s afraid to touch.
“I found an old photo of the dash,” I admit. “The handwriting on the glove compartment decal was your grandpa’s. I copied it.”
She lifts the knob with both hands like it’s made of glass. Like it’s sacred. “You… you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I say gruffly. “But I wanted to.”
Her eyes shine with tears and something fiercer. Grief and gratitude and a visceral emotion I can’t quite name.
Her lower lip trembles. “Thank you.”
“It belongs to you.” I step closer, drawn like iron filings to a magnet.
She looks up, straight into me, and the connection hits like a spark to gasoline.
Her fingers are still curled around the shift knob, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it’s my heart she’s holding.
I take another step, close enough to see the deeper blue flecks in her eyes, the flush blooming on her cheeks. Close enough to touch, if I had any business doing so. If I could trust myself to stop.
Her breath hitches.
She’s going to kiss me.
Or I’m going to kiss her.
Or maybe we’ll just stand here suspended in this impossible tension that feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever known.
My phone buzzes loudly on the bench behind me.
The spell breaks.
She blinks. I step back. The moment evaporates like heat off asphalt.
I mutter a curse under my breath. “Need to get that.”
“Of course.” She swallows, gaze flickering to the ground. “I should, uh… go set up the camera.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns and walks toward her gear, ponytail swaying with every step like a countdown I already regret starting.
I watch her go, shift knob still clutched in her hands, and wonder how the hell a man’s supposed to survive wanting someone like that—completely, and still pretending he doesn’t.
We spend the next hour reinstalling flushed lines, replacing filters, and checking the starter. I guide her hands. She learns fast. Every time our fingers brush, it’s like the Mustang isn’t the only thing getting rewired.
She climbs into the driver’s seat again, testing the fit of the shift knob. Her palm around the top. Her thumb over the engraving.
My throat tightens. That’s hers now. She’s part of the machine. Part of this shop. Part of me, if I’m honest enough to say it.
“You make it look right,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her gaze slides to mine, revealing hope and heat. And a question.
I look away.
“Electrical next,” I say gruffly. “Then we check the ignition coil.”
But inside me, my heart is a drumbeat:
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.