Chapter 5
I know something's wrong the second I walk into the shop Monday morning.
The air feels different. Charged. Like the moments before a storm except there's not a cloud in the sky and the heat's already climbing toward unbearable. I stop just inside the door, coffee in hand, trying to figure out what's setting off my internal alarm system.
Then I hear it.
Polka music. Loud, cheerful, aggressively German polka music blasting from somewhere in the garage. Not from Finn's usual radio—this is coming from somewhere else, echoing off the metal walls.
Finn's standing in the middle of his workspace, hands on his hips, slowly turning in a circle.
"HOLT."
Holt's at his workbench, back to us, working on something with his usual methodical focus.
He doesn't turn around. "Yes?"
"Where's my phone?"
"How should I know?"
"My phone, Holt. Where is it?"
"Have you tried calling it?"
Finn gestures wildly at the polka music still blaring. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT IS?"
"Music?" Holt's shoulders are shaking slightly.
"POLKA, Holt. It's playing polka. On repeat. And I can't find it to make it stop."
"Sounds like a personal problem."
I'm trying not to laugh. Actually biting my lip to keep it in because Finn's starting to tear apart his workspace—lifting toolboxes, checking under rags, moving parts around like his phone might be hiding beneath a carburetor.
"I know you did this," Finn says, still searching. "I know it was you."
"That's a serious accusation."
"You're the only person who would hide my phone playing POLKA MUSIC at seven in the morning."
"I didn't say I did it," Holt says, finally turning around. His face is perfectly neutral except for the tiny curve at the corner of his mouth. "I said I don't know where your phone is. Those are different statements."
The polka music keeps playing. Finn keeps searching. I'm standing by the door watching this unfold like it's the greatest show I've ever seen.
It takes him twenty minutes. Twenty full minutes of systematically taking apart his entire workspace. He finally finds it hidden inside a toolbox that was inside another, larger toolbox, wrapped in a shop rag, playing polka at full volume.
Finn holds up the phone, triumphant and furious. "THIS MEANS WAR."
“You keep saying that.” The edge in his voice knocks something loose in me, and I start laughing before I can stop it. It rolls out sudden enough that I tip sideways in my chair and have to catch myself on the table before I end up on the floor. Finn glances over, eyebrows up.
“You okay over there?”
"Just watching two grown men have a prank war," I say, heading to my desk. "Somehow this is the healthiest relationship I've ever witnessed."
"Thank you," Finn says, finally killing the polka music. Blessed silence. "We try."
"We don't try," Holt corrects. "This is just what happens when you work with an idiot."
"Takes one to know one."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Your face doesn't make sense."
"That's not a comeback."
"Your face isn't a comeback."
I'm grinning, getting to work, thinking: yeah. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The rest of the day flows into the kind of rhythm I'm starting to recognize—phones ringing, customers coming and going, invoices getting filed while Finn provides running commentary on everything.
Around lunch, Maeve stops by with sandwiches from Sunny's and stays for twenty minutes, perched on my desk telling me about the upcoming festival.
"Whole town shows up. There's food trucks, beer, live music. It's the social event of the season, which tells you everything about how exciting life is here."
"Sounds fun," I say, because it actually does. Small town festival, everyone I've met, music and food and probably more gossip about my living situation.
"You're coming, right?" She's not really asking. "Because everyone will be there and it's basically mandatory. Well, not mandatory mandatory, but if you don't show up people will talk."
"People already talk."
"True. But this way they'll have to talk to your face instead of behind your back. More efficient."
After she leaves, Finn appears at my desk. "So. The festival. You coming?"
"Apparently I have to or the town will revolt."
"Good." He's got that look—the mischief look, the one that means he's about to say something designed to get a reaction. He glances at Holt across the garage. "Hey Holt! Bet Scout dances at the festival."
I freeze. "I'm right here."
Finn ignores me completely. "Twenty bucks says she does."
Holt looks up from whatever he's working on. Studies me for a long moment—assessing, considering, that blue gaze tracking over me like he's calculating odds. Then he looks back at Finn. "You're on."
"I have a say in this!" My voice goes up. "I'm an actual person with agency and decision-making abilities!"
"Do you, though?" Finn's grinning now.
"Yes! I do! And I'm not dancing."
"We'll see."
"I'm serious. I don't dance. I have never danced. I will not be dancing at any festival now or in the future."
"Noted." But he's still grinning and I realize with sudden clarity that now I'm absolutely going to dance at this festival just so Finn wins twenty dollars off Holt.
Just to prove—what? That I'm on Finn's side?
When did I start picking sides? When did I become the kind of person who cares about their stupid bets?
But I do care. I care about Finn winning. About being part of their dynamic. About being someone they bet on, someone they include in their ridiculous competitions.
I'm in too deep. I've been absorbed. I'm one of them now.
"Great," I mutter. "I've been infected by the bet disease. This is how it starts."
"Welcome to the family," Finn says cheerfully.
The afternoon brings more work—inventory to finish, customers to help, phone calls to answer. But my brain keeps circling back to the festival. To dancing. To the idea of being there with them, part of the town, part of something bigger than myself.
By five-thirty I'm finishing up the last of the inventory I can handle before my brain melts.
I'm covered in dust from three hours of crawling around the back room reorganizing parts that haven't been touched since the shop opened.
My knees hurt. My back hurts. Everything hurts in that good accomplished way.
I'm sitting on the floor, clipboard in my lap covered in notes that probably only make sense to me, when I realize I need one more thing to complete this section. A specific socket set that I know exists but can't find in any logical location.
I head back into the main garage. "Has anyone seen the 3/8 drive socket set? The one that should be in the back but definitely isn't?"
"Top shelf," Holt says, not looking up. "Left side."
Of course it's on the top shelf. Everything I need is always on the goddamn top shelf.
I walk over and just... look at it. Up there. Mocking me. Then I turn to look at Finn and Holt. They're both working, both aware I'm standing here, both completely ignoring my predicament.
"Seriously?" I say to the garage at large.
"What?" Finn doesn't look over.
"You're both just going to stand there?"
Holt glances up. Meets my eyes. "You're resourceful. Figure it out."
"I'm five-three!"
"We know," Finn says. "We're very aware. It's adorable."
I grab a shop rag and throw it at him. He dodges, laughing. I throw another one at Holt. He catches it without even looking up, which is somehow more infuriating.
"Assholes," I announce. "You're both assholes."
Finn's laughing now, finally getting up to retrieve the socket set for me. But before he hands it over, I hear Holt's voice—quiet, almost under his breath, but I catch it.
"Tall assholes."
I can't help it. I grin. He just called himself tall. Made the joke himself. Acknowledged this stupid running bit we have and participated in it voluntarily. That's—that's progress. That's him letting me in. That's him being playful in his own careful, measured way.
"Thank you," I say to Finn, taking the socket set. Then to Holt: "And thank you. For your contribution."
His mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile but close enough that I'm counting it.
Finn's question cuts through the moment. "You guys want beers?"
I'm back in the storage room, finishing up, when I process what he said. Beers. Plural. Implying an invitation. Implying me.
"Beers where?" I call back, because specificity matters. Beers at the shop means standing around in the heat drinking warm beer from the questionable fridge. Beers somewhere else could mean anything.
"My place. Celebrate Scout surviving Coyote Bend." He's moving toward wherever he keeps his keys, which seems to be a different place every time. "It's tradition."
"How often does that happen?"
"You're the first in two years." He flashes that wide smile. "Which says more about us than the employees, probably."
"Definitely says more about you," Holt's voice comes from the main garage. He appears in the doorway behind Finn. His hair's damp with sweat, tank top stuck to his chest, and he's got that look he gets at the end of a long day—tired but satisfied. "You scare people off."
"I'm delightful."
"You're a lot."
"Same thing." Finn turns back to me. "So? Beers? You coming?"
I hesitate, suddenly uncertain. This feels like their thing.
Their routine. Something they've been doing long before I showed up and will keep doing long after I—except I'm not leaving.
I decided that, didn't I? Somewhere between the sundress and the boots and the way Holt looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"You sure?" I stand up, brushing dust off my shorts. "I don't want to intrude on your—whatever this is."
"It's beers, Scout. Not a secret society." Finn heads for the door. "Come on. I've got the good stuff. By which I mean the cold stuff. By which I mean anything that's been in my fridge for more than an hour."
Holt's still standing there, watching me with that steady blue gaze. "You up for it?"