Page 28 of Working for the Runaway Bride

Molly steps farther into the garage, her heels making faint taps against the concrete. The rear of the garage is darker than the front, illuminated by two long fluorescent lights suspended over the work area. Customer vehicles occupy the first two bays, but the final bay belongs to me.

A black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle sits beneath a canvas cover. It doesn’t need the protection inside the garage. I keep it covered anyway. Dust gets into everything, and this car has survived too much to be neglected now.

Molly stops beside me. “What’s under there?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s obviously not true.”

“It’s a car.”

“What kind?”

“The kind with four wheels.”

She folds her arms. “I thought you wanted to teach me about cars.”

“I said I’d be happy to teach you one day.”

“You said that?”

“I’m saying it now.”

Her smile makes something tighten low in my stomach.

“Then start with this one.”

I should refuse. This car is personal. More personal than the details of my conviction, which can be found by anyone with internet access and enough curiosity.

Almost no one touches the Chevelle. Luis knows better than to remove the cover without asking. Carter has driven it once, complained about the lack of Bluetooth, and never showed interest again.

But Molly is looking at it with genuine curiosity. I reach for the canvas. “Stand back.”

She does, barely. I pull the cover toward me. The Chevelle emerges slowly beneath the bright shop lights, black paint gleaming like still water. Chrome catches the fluorescent glow along the grille and bumpers. The long hood, clean lines, and polished wheels belong to an era when cars were built to be felt as much as driven.

Molly’s lips part.

“Oh.”

I look at the car instead of her. “That’s a disappointing reaction.”

“No, it’s beautiful.”

I can’t stop the pride that moves through me. “Yes, it is.”

She walks around the front, careful not to touch. “How old is it?”

“Nineteen seventy.”

“You’ve kept it in incredible condition.”

“It wasn’t in incredible condition when I got it.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Everything.”

I trail my fingertips along the edge of the hood. “The engine was seized. Transmission was gone. Floor pans were rusted through. The wiring had been chewed apart by mice. Most people would’ve sent it to a scrapyard.”