Seraphina’s POV
"Ouch! Shit!"
The wrench slipped from my oily fingers and smacked right in the shin. I hopped around on one foot like an idiot, clutching my leg.
"Language, city girl!" Caleb’s voice drifted out from under the truck hood, but I could hear him laughing.
"Oh, shut up!" I shot back, rubbing my bruised shin. "That actually hurt!"
"What hurt more? Your leg or your pride?"
I stuck my tongue out at the general direction of his voice, even though he couldn’t see . "Both, thank you very much."
Two weeks. Two whole weeks of grease under my fingernails, oil stains on my clothes, and tools that seed determined to attack . My hands looked like I’d been wrestling with machinery—which, to be fair, I had been.
Gone were the perfectly manicured nails and soft skin. Now I had actual calluses. Real, honest-to-God calluses from real work. And weirdly? I was kind of proud of them.
"Sera, you still alive over there?" Caleb poked his head out, blonde hair sticking up every which way, a smudge of black grease across his cheek.
"Unfortunately." I bent down to pick up the traitorous wrench. "This thing has it out for , I swear."
"The wrench isn’t the problem. You’re holding it wrong."
"I am not!"
"Are too." He erged fully from under the hood, wiping his hands on an already filthy rag. "Here, let show you."
Before I could protest, he was behind , his arms coming around to guide my grip on the wrench. His chest pressed against my back, warm and solid, and I caught a whiff of his scentâ€"motor oil, soap, and sothing purely masculine.
"See? Like this," he murmured near my ear, his hands covering mine. "Don’t grip so tight. Let the tool do the work."
My brain short-circuited for exactly three seconds. Then I jerked away from him like I’d been burned.
"Got it. Thanks. I’m good now."
Caleb stepped back, his eyes twinkling with amusent. "You sure? Because your face is about as red as that fire engine we worked on yesterday."
"It’s hot in here," I mumbled, turning back to the engine I’d been working on.
"Uh-huh."
I could practically hear his grin. Smug bastard.
"Don’t you have your own work to do?" I asked, not looking at him.
"I do. But watching you wrestle with basic tools is way more entertaining."
I grabbed a shop rag and threw it at his head. He ducked, laughing.
"You’re terrible," I said, but I was fighting a smile now too.
"Terribly charming, you an."
"Terribly full of yourself."
The phone rang, cutting through our banter. I moved to answer it, grateful for the distraction.
"Morrison’s Auto Repair."
"Hi honey, it’s Mrs. Patterson. Is my car ready yet?"
Sweet Mrs. Patterson, who brought us homade cookies every ti she ca in. "Just finished up! Your oil’s been changed, and Caleb checked all your fluids. Everything looks great."
"Oh wonderful! I’ll be by this afternoon to pick her up."
"Perfect. See you then!"
I hung up and turned to find Caleb watching with an odd expression.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "It’s just... you’re really good at this."
"Answering phones? It’s not exactly rocket science."
"No, I an all of it. The custors love you. You rember everyone’s nas, their car problems, even their kids’ birthdays. Yesterday you helped old Mr. Jason troubleshoot his truck over the phone and saved him a service call."
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I just listen."
"It’s more than that." Caleb’s voice got softer. "You care. About the people, about doing good work. You belong here, Sera."
"I..." I started, then stopped. What was I supposed to say to that?
The mont stretched between us, warm and comfortable and terrifying all at once. Then the shop bell chid, announcing a custor.
"I’ll get it," I said quickly, escaping to the front office.
Around lunchti, I was reconciling the morning’s receipts when a wave of hosickness hit so hard it took my breath away.
*What are Adrian and Lily doing right now?*
I glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Adrian would be at school, probably eating lunch with his friends, chattering about whatever five-year-olds chatted about. And Lily... God, Lily would be napping in her crib, or maybe playing with those colorful blocks Damien bought her.
My chest tightened. The numbers on the receipt blurred as tears threatened.
*Stop it,* I told myself firmly. *You made this choice. They’re better off without you.*
But were they? Or was I just a coward who ran away instead of fighting for her family?
"Hey." Caleb’s voice made look up. He was standing in the doorway between the garage and office, concern written all over his face. "You okay?"
"I’m fine." My voice ca out too bright, too fake.
Caleb studied for a mont, then moved closer. "You were thinking about them, weren’t you? Your kids."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"That’s normal," he said gently. "Hell, it would be weird if you didn’t miss them."
"It hurts," I whispered. "Every day. Like there’s this hole in my chest that just keeps getting bigger."
"I know."
"I think you’re hurting," he said carefully. "I think you made an impossible choice because you couldn’t see any other options. But Sera... hiding here isn’t going to fix what’s broken."
"Maybe so things can’t be fixed."
"Bullshit."
The word ca out so sharp it made flinch.
"You want to know what I see when I look at you?" Caleb continued, his voice intense. "I see a woman who survived torture that would have killed most people. Who gave birth to two children while dealing with trauma that would have broken anyone else. Who learned to run a business, handle pack politics, manage a household with a baby and a five-year-old."
"Caleb..."
"You’re not broken, Sera. You’re healing. But you can’t heal by pretending the people you love don’t exist."
"I don’t know how to go back," I whispered.
"Maybe you don’t go back," he said softly. "Maybe you move forward. But you do it as you, not as so watered-down version you think is safer."
I laughed, but it ca out shaky. "When did you get so wise?"
"Must be all that small-town living." His grin was gentle now, understanding. "So what do you say we start with lunch? I’ll buy."
"Okay," I said quietly. "Lunch. But I’m still buying."
"Deal."
As we walked toward the door, I caught my reflection in the chro of a bumper. ssy braid, oil-stained shirt, dirt under my fingernails. I looked nothing like the polished executive I used to be.
I looked real.
Reviews
All reviews (0)