Chapter 1
PRESLEY
That’s today?
That’s today.
That’s today.
There were only so many ways to interpret two words. Only so many ways to alter their meaning with various inflections.
that’s today
No matter how many times I’d spoken Jeremiah’s text aloud, none of the options held appeal. The bastard hadn’t even bothered with a question mark or period to alleviate some confusion.
The ugly words jumped off my phone’s screen, and I snarled as I shut it down. There was no point reading them over and over and over again. I’d been doing it constantly since Saturday.
Those two words were the last in our thread.
He’d sent them the morning of our wedding—the wedding he’d forgotten.
Jeremiah hadn’t texted a panicked apology.
He hadn’t called me endless times to fill my voicemail with excuses.
He hadn’t driven the three hours from Ashton to Clifton Forge to get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness.
His text might as well have read the end.
Well, fuck him. Fuck his text. Fuck all the years I’d wasted on a man who claimed to love me but didn’t have a damn clue how to show it.
I wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of breaking up with him face-to-face.
Or maybe standing me up on our wedding day had been his chicken-shit way of breaking up with me.
After calling off the wedding Saturday, I’d spent yesterday in tears, nursing a broken heart and a raging hangover. Presley Marks was not a woman who cried easily. I’d given up on tears at a young age because they only earned me another slap. But yesterday, I’d let them fall freely.
I’d cried for being so damn stupid. And pathetic. And alone. And humiliated.
How many times had my friends warned me about Jeremiah? How many times had I defended him? How many times had I looked at my naked ring finger, deluding myself that I didn’t need an engagement ring when a wedding band was the real prize?
The sting in my nose threatened more pitiful tears, but I sniffed it away, blinking rapidly before a stray tear could ruin my mascara. Then I shoved my phone into my purse and pushed open the door of my Jeep. The white paint gleamed, reflecting the early morning sunshine.
I’d had it cleaned and detailed last week. I’d wanted it to sparkle when Jeremiah and I drove away from the wedding reception. I’d wanted the interior spotless when we drove it to Ashton.
Today was supposed to be moving day.
The majority of my belongings were in boxes, and I’d reserved a U-Haul trailer. I’d signed a lease on an apartment in Ashton because Jeremiah had been temporarily bunking at his motorcycle club’s clubhouse—for three years.
Stupid, Presley. So damn stupid. I’d been so busy planning how to merge our lives into one that I hadn’t noticed my fiancé was perfectly content living apart.
Maybe I should have stayed home and dealt with the fallout today.
I had a landlord to contact and numerous deposits to lose.
Instead, I’d followed my normal Monday morning routine and driven to work, detouring to swing by the grocery store and shove my thousand-dollar wedding dress into the clothes donation bin.
The Clifton Forge Garage had been my constant for the past ten years, and today, I needed the familiar. I unlocked the office door and slipped inside, flipping on the lights before settling in behind my desk and taking a moment to revel in the silence.
I’d come in an hour earlier than normal and the quiet wouldn’t last. Soon, there’d be tools clanking in the shop, customers chatting in the waiting area and phones ringing in the office. But for now, it was peaceful.
I drew in a deep breath, searching for Draven’s scent. He’d died over three years ago, but there were times when I could still smell him. Maybe it was only my imagination conjuring a hint of Old Spice and a breath of mint swirling in the air.
When I’d woken up this morning, I’d known the wedding fallout was mine alone to handle, so that was exactly what I’d do. One step at a time, day by day, I’d survive.
At least the hardest part was over. I’d already marched down the aisle to tell the wedding guests that my fiancé had forgotten about our big day.
The rest would be easy, right? It was simply logistics.
Bartenders and caterers would be paid. By me.
Gifts that hadn’t been collected would be returned.
By me. My life would go on and one day, it wouldn’t hurt as much to know that my fiancé hadn’t wanted to marry me.
But could I really blame Jeremiah? This was my own fault. I’d been deaf to the truth and blind to the signs. I should have ended this engagement years ago. Maybe I was just as much a coward as Jeremiah.
Burying those thoughts, I rattled the mouse beside my keyboard, waking up my computer. Then I dove into my email inbox and tried to get ahead for the day.
Once the garage crew knew I was here and not wallowing at home, they’d swarm the office.
They’d hover over me all day, checking to make sure I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown.
I wouldn’t get shit done because I’d be busy maintaining a brave face and listening to them curse Jeremiah up one side and down the other.
I’d tell them I was fine—which they’d know was a lie.
I hadn’t been fine in a long, long time.
There were only three unread emails to go when footsteps echoed outside. The metal staircase that extended to the apartment above the office vibrated as Isaiah, one of our mechanics and my friend, came downstairs.
I took a deep breath and spun my chair to face the door as it opened. “Morning.”
“Hey, Pres.” Isaiah stepped inside, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His short brown hair was damp. He crossed the room and sat in a chair across from my desk, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“It’s good to see you in that chair,” I said.
He grinned. “It’s good to be sitting here again.”
Isaiah and his wife, Genevieve, had been living in Missoula for the past three years while she’d gone to law school. Now that they were back, Isaiah would be working at the garage again, and Genevieve would be working alongside her mentor at a small law firm in town.
“How’s Genevieve?”
“Good.” He cast his glance to the ceiling. “She’ll be down soon. She’s excited for her first day back at work.”
“How was it staying in the apartment again?”
“Like old times. Don’t tell Genevieve, but I’m hoping the contractor is behind a couple weeks so we can crash upstairs a little while longer.”
Years ago, that apartment had been their home, and it hadn’t been rented out in the years that they’d been gone.
Like their jobs, it had been waiting for them to return.
Except this time, they wouldn’t be calling it home.
The two of them had bought a new house in a quiet neighborhood and would be moving in soon.
Still, no matter how much time passed, I’d always consider the apartment Isaiah’s.
“I’m excited to see your new place.”
“You can have the first tour.” His grin widened.
I studied his face. It was strange to see Isaiah smile, but a welcome strange. He’d changed a lot from the tortured soul who’d started working here years ago.
Genevieve deserved all the credit. She’d rescued my friend and brought life back to his eyes. She’d worked a miracle in that little studio apartment.
“What?” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No. It’s just good to see you happy.”
He sighed, the grin fading. “How are you?”
“Fine.” That was the first one of the day. I’d likely repeat it twenty times before I left at five. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
Isaiah would be the only one who didn’t push today. I could hug him for it.
The two of us had formed a fast friendship from the beginning, the only two outsiders working at a garage staffed by former members of the Tin King Motorcycle Club.
Before Isaiah, I’d ignored the hushed conversations alone.
I’d dutifully gone to the post office or bank whenever my presence hadn’t been wanted in the office.
I’d overlooked the parties and booze and women.
But then the club had disbanded and life at the garage had changed. They’d hired Isaiah, and when the others whispered about secrets, Isaiah and I had each other.
We’d drink coffee together every morning. We’d talk about nothing. I wouldn’t ask him about his past or why he’d spent three years in prison. He wouldn’t ask me how I’d come to Clifton Forge and why I refused to speak of my childhood. Yet we were friends. I trusted him.
And it was good to have him home.
“How are things at the garage?” he asked.
“Busy. We had to hire two mechanics to cover what you did on your own.”
His forehead furrowed. “I’m not taking anyone’s job by coming back, am I?”
“No. Dash and I talked and we’re keeping them both on to do the routine stuff so you can apprentice on the custom work.”
“I’m happy to do the oil changes and tune-ups.”
I waved him off. “It’s already decided.”
Isaiah stood and walked into the waiting room. The clank and pop of a K-Cup slotting into the coffee machine drifted my way.
The space as a whole had two enclosed offices along with the reception area where I sat. One of the offices belonged to Dash, the owner of the garage and my boss. The other had been Draven’s—Dash’s father.
Draven had managed the garage his entire life, passing it down to Dash. He’d been more than my boss, he’d been my family. I’d gladly give up every one of my material possessions to have him back for a hug this morning or to have had him with me on Saturday, walking me down the aisle.
After Draven had died, Dash had offered me Draven’s office. It had a door so I wouldn’t have to sit out front with waiting customers, but I hadn’t been able to sit behind Draven’s desk.
No one, especially me, would ever take his place.
So we’d converted that office into a waiting room. We’d brought in couches and set up a coffee station.
Isaiah came out with two steaming mugs in his hands.