Chapter 3 #2
Hours pass like minutes. The sun slides lower, shadows stretching across the concrete. My back aches and my feet are killing me, but I couldn’t care less. By the time Scotty checks the clock and tosses his rag aside, I don’t want to leave.
“I should get going, actually,” he says, wiping his hands.
I arch a brow, forcing lightness. “Oh yeah, you’ve got a hot date or something?”
His expression doesn’t shift. Just a shrug, easy, unreadable. “Maybe.”
I force a little laugh, tugging at the wrist of my glove like it’s suddenly too tight.
“Well… lucky girl.”
He doesn’t rise to it. Just drops the rag on the workbench and reaches for a socket he doesn’t need to put away, giving himself something to do.
I pull off my gloves, tucking them neatly into the tray with my name on it. “So… same time next Sunday?”
Something flickers across his face: hesitation, or maybe it’s just the way the light catches his eyes under the brim of his cap. “If you want.”
“If I want?” I tilt my head, trying to keep it playful, even though my chest is tight. “Scotty, I’m the one who asked you in the first place?”
“Just making sure you’re still up for it. Yeah. Next Sunday.”
For a beat, we just stand there in the quiet bay, the Mustang resting between us. His gaze holds mine longer than it should, steady and unreadable. Something hums in the air, low and charged. I feel it in my chest, my pulse, the tips of my fingers.
If I took one step closer, if he reached out, God, I know exactly how it would go.
Then he blinks, breaking the moment. He tugs his hat lower and clears his throat. “I really do need to head out.”
“Right,” I say, a little too bright. “Me too.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder, and he walks me to the edge of the lot. In my car, the air feels charged, too quiet. He stands there, hands shoved into his back pockets, cap pulled low, watching me.
“Let me.” He steps forward when I reach for the handle, his hand darting out to reach around me. We both freeze, his chest softly brushing against my back. He hesitates just long enough that I turn my head slightly, our noses so close they almost touch. Our lips are just a few inches apart.
For one breathless second, I think he’s going to close the distance. That he’ll press me back against the car and kiss me like every almost between us was just foreplay. Like he, too, has spent countless hours over the years imagining what it would be like to kiss again.
Instead, he blinks slowly, like he’s steadying himself, and steps back. “Drive safe.”
The words are plain, nothing special. But the way his eyes hold mine when he says them has my knees weak.
I force a smile, sliding behind the wheel. “See you Sunday.”
He doesn’t move until I’ve pulled away, his silhouette shrinking in the mirror while my heart races like I just dodged or missed the best mistake of my life.
Dinner at my parents' house is always peaceful. Tonight, though, every sound grates. The clink of silverware is too sharp, the laughter too easy, the smell of Mom’s roast too warm against the tightness still lodged in my chest from the garage.
I take my usual seat, smoothing the napkin in my lap more times than necessary. Dad sits at the head of the table, bourbon glass in hand, his expression the same stern-but-soft one it’s always been.
I’ve just finished telling dad about my plans for the Mustang when the front door bangs open, and Axel breezes in like a storm.
He’s still got his jacket half on when he kisses Mom’s cheek, then swipes a roll straight off the plate before even sitting down.
He drops into the chair across from me, grin cocky, like he knows something I don’t.
“Sorry, damn meeting went long,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “What’d I miss?”
“Only my patience,” Mom deadpans.
Axel winks at her, then turns his gaze on me. “And what about you? Still working herself to death?”
“Aren’t you the one who just took a three-hour meeting on Sunday?” Mom scolds.
I open my mouth, but Dad beats me to it, voice low and sure. “She’s finally doing something about that Mustang.”
“You mean Scotty?” He crooks his brow at me.
“No, me.”
Axel barks a laugh, nearly spraying crumbs across the table. “Wait, you are? Working on the car? Since when?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I twirl my fork against my plate, refusing to flinch. “Since I asked Scotty to help me with it.”
“So Scotty is doing it then?” He laughs, but the rest of the table goes quiet for just a second. Dad grunts like that’s enough of an answer. Mom’s eyes twinkle, but Axel? Axel smirks like Christmas came early.
“Scotty, huh? That explains the boots.” His grin turns wicked. “Guess it’s that time again.”
I narrow my eyes. “That time again?”
“You know.” He waves the roll like a gavel, crumbs scattering. “Every couple of years, you two do this little dance. You flirt, everyone laughs, and then you move on. Same routine, different season.”
I stab a green bean with unnecessary force. “Maybe everyone needs to learn to mind their own damn business once in a while, huh? I’m almost thirty years old, so it’s not cute anymore. Besides, you don’t really know anything about my relationship with Scotty.”
“Sure.” Axel leans back, smirk intact. “And maybe he’ll turn into Prince Charming if you kiss him just right.”
Mom shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t be an ass.”
“What? I’m just saying, Scotty’s my buddy, I know him. He’s fine for a laugh, but…” Axel shrugs, unbothered. “He doesn’t settle. And Adrienne knows that.”
My chest tightens. “You don’t know everything, Axel.”
“True.” He pops the rest of the roll into his mouth, already done with the conversation. “Anyway, I’ve got a date tonight. I just stopped by to grab a roll.”
He pushes away from the table, humming to himself as he heads for the door, chuckling. The slam of the door leaves a silence almost worse than his voice.
Sometimes I really wish one of my brothers had been a sister.
Dad mutters something about Axel’s priorities, but Mom shakes her head
“That boy. Never taken anything seriously in his life.”
“Except charming women,” Dad adds, almost amused.
I drop my fork, and it clatters against my plate. “Can we please change the subject?”
Dad shifts his gaze to me, the gruffness softening. “Never thought I’d see the day you let that car sit and collect dust. That Mustang was your baby.”
My throat tightens with guilt. “I know. I always hoped I’d take it with me when I went to college, but it just didn’t work out. But I miss it. That’s why I finally decided to do something about it.”
“Scotty’s a good mechanic,” Dad admits, slowly drumming his fingers on the table. “He’ll take care of it.”
“He’s not just fixing it,” I say quickly, needing them to understand. “He’s actually teaching me. I want to learn.”
Dad grunts, which in Hudson Slade language translates to Why the hell didn’t you pay attention when I was trying to teach you?
“Well, isn't that ironic?”
But Mom beams. “Good. It’s about time you did something for yourself. You always did love learning new things.”
When the plates are cleared and Mom hums her way into the kitchen to make some tea, I slip out to the porch.
The night air is cool against my skin, the stars stretched wide above the pasture.
I always come home when I feel untethered, but now, it’s home that’s making me feel that way.
Like I’m itching for something I can’t yet put my finger on.
The porch swing creaks as I sink into it. Inside, I hear my parents laughing. I close my eyes, letting my head lull back to rest against the seat. The crickets chirp around me, the same steady rhythm they always have. But nothing in me feels steady.
I sit back up and press my forehead against the chain of the swing, whispering to the quiet, “What are you doing, Adrienne?”
No answer comes. Just the ache in my chest and the echo of a shrug from a man who won’t give me more than maybe.
My phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts with a message from Brooklyn.
Brooklyn: Did you look over the sponsorship clause for the fall fest yet? Trent’s convinced we’re going to end up with a tractor supply logo on the banners.
I tap back a quick reply, happy to have an excuse to call her and get these thoughts out before I do something stupid like tell Scotty how I’m feeling.
Me: I’ll look tonight. I’ll call you later.
I step back inside to tell my parents goodnight before heading over to my house on the ranch. Home, a glass of wine, and Brooklyn’s voice of reason. That’s the plan. Anything to drown out the echo of maybe.
By the time I get home, the house feels too quiet. My keys clink loudly against the bowl I toss them in by the door, the sound echoing in a way that makes me ache for noise, for anything to pull me out of the loop Scotty left me stuck in.
I toe off my boots by the door and head straight for the kitchen. The bottle of red sitting on the counter has been calling my name since I picked it up from our newest acquisition, Blanc Wineries, last week. I pour a generous glass, swirl it once, then carry it with me into the living room.
The couch sags comfortably when I sink into it. I curl one leg under me, tug the throw blanket over my lap, and take a long swallow of wine. The warmth spreads through me, but it doesn’t take the edge off.
I should be working. Well, first, I should have showered, but I can’t even be bothered with that at the moment.
My laptop sits on the coffee table staring at me.
The sponsorship clause Brooklyn texted about is flagged in my inbox.
I should care. I should crack it open and bury myself in definitions and stipulations until my mind shuts up.
But I don’t. Not tonight
Instead, I stare at the ceiling and replay the afternoon on a maddening loop. The way his hand brushed mine when he gave me the wrench. The way he finally smiled—just a crack, just enough to let me know he wasn’t immune. The smile disappeared the second I pushed too hard.
Maybe.