Chapter 12 Nolan
Nolan
I sit on the edge of the cot staring at the rumpled duvet. Blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes are imprinted behind my eyelids as I close my eyes.
Sally.
She left ten minutes ago as the sun came up, kissing me softly and promising to see me tonight. I can still taste her, smell her, feel her. Her nails in my chest as I sank inside her, her breath on my neck, her heartbeat racing against mine like she thought I was worth running toward.
Somewhere between her whispering yes against my mouth and me losing myself in her sweetness, I forgot all the reasons I shouldn’t want her.
But I do want her.
Hell, I more than want her.
She trusted me. Gave me everything.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
I pace the shop like a caged animal. The Mustang sits in the bay, silent and smug, like she knows exactly what happened last night and is lighting up a cigarette about it.
I lean my palms on the fender, trying to breathe.
“Was it a mistake?” I ask the car.
The car does not confirm or deny.
“It complicates everything,” I add.
Still nothing.
“And she deserves better.”
The Mustang stares at me with judgmental headlights.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The sound of boots on concrete makes me jump. The door swings open, and George steps in, burying a yawn in her sleeve.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you here early again?”
“Why are you?” I deflect. “It’s not even 6 AM.”
She shrugs. “Beckett couldn’t sleep. Which means I couldn’t sleep.”
I move to the small kitchen and pour us both a mug of coffee from the pot I scrubbed clean several times.
“Thanks,” she says as I hand it to her. She watches me over the rim as she takes her first sip. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Thanks.”
“Or spent the night with a certain blonde Mustang owner,” she adds casually.
The coffee I’m swallowing nearly exits through my nose.
“George,” I warn.
She leans against the workbench. “I passed her on my way here, Nolan. Pretty obvious she spent the night.”
I tighten my grip on the cup. “It was one night.”
“Uh-huh. And you haven’t been watching Sally like a man who’s been falling in love in slow motion from the moment she pulled up with that Mustang,” she says. “A man doesn’t obsess about an engine rebuild unless a special woman is involved.”
I don’t reply, mainly because she’s right.
George softens. “Nolan. I know how it feels to think you aren’t allowed good things after what happened.”
I freeze. Damn, why did I ever confess why I left Tangle Creek to George when I took this lease? She won’t let this lie.
She steps closer. “You’ve been alone and lonely for so damn long. You’re allowed to want someone who wants you back, faults and all.”
“I’m not—” My voice fractures like a hairline crack in a glass. “I’m not built for this.”
“Yes, you are.” She touches my arm lightly. “You just forgot how.”
I shake my head. “I’m not the man I was before the accident.”
George nods. “And that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Nolan.”
She lets that sit a beat, then sighs, stepping back like she knows she’s reached the end of what she can say.
“Anyway”—she grabs a crate of tools from the side bench—“Dad wants me to swing by the sheriff’s office. Says it’s just a quick check-in, which means I’ll be there at least an hour listening to him pretend he’s not worried about wedding details. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s the bride.”
She heads for the door, then glances back. “Just think about what I said, okay?”
Then she’s gone, her boots fading down the steps and out into the gravel lot.
The clock hits noon, and the Mustang’s still sitting there as if she’s holding her breath.
I should go home. Grab a few hours of sleep. Shower. Do something normal. But I can’t seem to make my body leave this space.
I stare at the Mustang like she might speak if I listen hard enough. But she doesn’t.
She just reminds me of Sally.
Of the way her fingers brushed mine last night. The way her laugh stuck in my ribs. Of the things I can’t let myself want.
I turn away. Head to Bay 2, where an old ‘91 Chevy’s been waiting on a brake line replacement.
It’s a good distraction. Mechanical. Familiar. The kind of job that doesn’t ask questions or feel like temptation in a tight T-shirt.
Still, every time the wind shifts through the open bay doors, carrying a whisper of wildflowers and vanilla, I glance at the clock.
It’s only 1:18.
Hell.
The unmistakable rumble of an old pickup pulls into the lot.
I don’t look up right away. I’m still elbow-deep in brake fluid and trying not to count the minutes until Sally shows.
Slow, heavy footsteps cross the concrete, like someone who doesn’t rush for anything except maybe cattle.
Then: “Hey, Nolan. George in?”
I turn and try very hard not to smirk.
Tom Sutton stands there in a flannel shirt and jeans, holding one side of his face. His mouth is slack, lower lip practically detached.
“Jesus, Sutton. You okay?”
“Denthisht,” he mumbles, clearly still numb. “Root canal. Feelsh like my thungsh been in a fight with a shovel.”
I wipe my hands on a rag. “Sounds like you lost.”
He grunts. “Came to see if George can look at the Ford. Transmission’s jumpier than a calf at branding time.”
“You could try at the sheriff’s office,” I say, grabbing a water bottle. “She was headed there, but that was a few hours ago.”
Tom nods slowly. “No time. On my way to pick up my mail-order bride.”
I stare at him. “Wait, that whole will stipulation George mentioned is real?”
“As a heart attack,” he says. Then adds, “Don’t ashk. It involves a will, a lawyer, and my mother’s twisted sense of humor. Marry or lose the ranch. Henry and Angus have already fallen into the parson’s trap, and my bride-to-be is arriving today. Delaney. Hopefully, she’s not allergic to horshes.”
“That’s your bar?” I raise an eyebrow. “No horse allergy?”
“Romance ain’t exactly a high priority when your fence lines are being cut, and barns are going up like bonfires under sushpicious circumstances,” Tom mutters, then grimaces. “Forget I said that.”
I straighten. “Yeah… George mentioned that too. About the weird stuff going on at Havenridge.”
Tom shrugs a little too casually. “Probably nothing. Could be local kidsh meshing around. Or plain bad luck with a mean streak.”
Tension coats his words and forms lines around his mouth, even through the lingering dental freeze.
I don’t pry further. Not my business.
Instead, I nod toward his truck outside. “Well, if George isn’t back soon, I can take a look at it.”
“Nah. Not urgent. I’ll catch her at the ranch later,” Tom says. He nods toward the Mustang behind me. “That Sally’s car?”
I nod.
He whistles low, then winces again. “Damn. No wonder Wanda said you’re in trouble.”
I freeze. “Wanda talks too much.”
“She’s a waitresh. Thas the job.” Tom gives me a half-smile, crooked from the novocaine. “Good luck with your classhic car princess.”
“Good luck with your mystery wife.”
“Thanks, Nolan.” He gives me a half-smirk. “Or should I call you Garage Daddy?”
I glare at him. “Call me that again, and you’ll need another trip to the dentist.”
Tom chuckles, completely unoffended. He mumbles something about cowboys and mechanics both needing their damn heads checked as he ambles out.
The door swings shut behind him, and I mutter, “Garage Daddy. Jesus.”
As if I needed that nickname burned any deeper into the town gossip chain.
I toss the rag onto the workbench and head back to the truck I was pretending to care about. Anything to keep my hands busy while I wait for the real distraction I can’t shake—one with blue eyes, a determined streak, and a way of looking at me like I’m something worth rebuilding.
Not that I’m dwelling.
Much.