And my heart?
My heart is a ’67 Shelby fully revved, tires spinning, waiting for him to drop the clutch.
Tomorrow keeps getting closer.
And I think…
I might be ready for a little trouble.
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:
