“You’re not seriously going to let me ride my bike, are you?” he added, testing her.
Her gaze darted to the ground. She didn’t answer. Tool didn’t like that. His hand came up, firm but gentle, fingers sliding to her throat, thumb lifting her chin until she had to look him in the eye.
“You can say no, sweetheart,” he said, low and honest.
His voice, his touch—both undid her. Her heart cracked just a little more at the thought of walking away again. “I’ll take him home,” she said, eyes locked with Romeo and Hammer.
Tool dropped his hand, but the loss of it stung. She didn’t want the moment to end. So she leaned forward and laid her forehead gently on his chest. “Don’t break my heart,” she whispered.
His hand threaded through her hair, slow and reverent. He kissed the top of her head. “Take me home.”
With a nod to the brothers, Brandi turned and guided Tool down the alley, past the bikes, toward her Bug. One night. One ride. That was all this had to be.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The drive was silent.
Tool rested his head back against the seat, one hand draped over his knee, the other clutching his keys in a loose fist. Brandi kept both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, even though she could feel the weight of him beside her like a second heartbeat. The closer they got to the garage, the heavier the air became. Not awkward. Just full. With everything unsaid. With everything they hadn’t been.
She pulled into the lot behind the shop, parking in the same spot she had the night she brought him dinner. The lights were off inside the garage, but the stairwell to the apartment glowed amber behind the glass door.
“You got your key?” she asked, turning the engine off.
Tool gave a nod and climbed out, surprisingly steady for a man who could barely string a sentence together ten minutes ago. She followed him up the steps, keeping close in case he stumbled, but he didn’t. He unlocked the door, letting her step inside first.
The apartment was small—one wide-open room above the shop with a mattress in the corner, a couch that had seen betteryears, and a table cluttered with bike parts and unopened mail. A single bulb in the kitchen cast a soft yellow haze over the room.
He kicked the door shut behind him and stood there a moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with her.
Brandi set her bag on the table, peeled off her jacket, and turned to him. “You should sit down.”
Tool hesitated, then dropped onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders.
“You don’t have to stay,” he muttered.
She crossed her arms. “But you want me to.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Brandi moved to the small kitchen and found a glass. She filled it with water and brought it to him. He didn’t reach for it, so she crouched in front of him, nudging it into his hand.
“Drink,” she said.
Tool lifted it slowly, took a few sips, then set it on the floor. His hands dropped back between his knees. When she started to stand, his hand caught her wrist.
“You don’t have to fix me, Brandi.”
Her breath caught.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” she said. “I’m trying to remind you that you’re worth showing up for.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her. And whatever was buried deep in him flickered behind his eyes. Pain. Regret. Want. All wrapped up in silence.
“I shouldn’t have let you walk away,” he said. “Not after that wreck. Not after the way I handled everything.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
He nodded, like he expected that. Like he didn’t deserve less.
