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.
Chapter 13
Nolan
The shop door opens at 7 PM on the dot.
Sally walks in, holding two coffees and a bag that smells like grilled cheese, sunshine, and everything I didn’t know I needed.
Her cheeks are pink. Her eyes are hopeful.
“Hi,” she says.
And my heart gives the stupidest lurch.
Sally approaches slowly, reading me like she always does. “I brought you a bacon-and-cheese biscuit because you work better when you don’t pass out from starvation.”
She holds it out like a peace offering.
I take it. My hand brushes hers. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“Thanks,” I say, because I don’t know how to sayyou destroy me in every good way.
We sit on overturned crates near the Mustang, eating in small bites, trading glances like a couple of teenagers afraid someone’s going to catch us making out behind the gym.
