Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Then I figured I just needed a woman. Easy. Familiar. Someone who knows the score, wants the same no-strings arrangement I’ve always kept.
But every time I considered reaching out, something stopped me cold.
Some very specific someone.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
Her stubborn independence.
Her frost-bitten honesty.
Her quiet boldness.
And the worst damn part? She hasn’t even reached out. Not once.
Not a “How are things?”
Not a “Made it home safe?”
Not even a stupid emoji.
Nothing.
I’m the idiot who said I wasn’t the keeping kind, and now I’m the one acting like I’ve been benched for a playoff game.
I tighten a bolt too hard just to feel something other than the tug in my ribs.
About ten minutes later, footsteps crunch on the gravel that leads from the office out to the garage. They’re sharp, quick, irritated.
Honey.
My daughter walks in like she’s coming to arrest someone. Typical hot rod t-shirt, jeans, black Chuck Taylors, hair pulled back, and eyes sharp as glass. She inherited the worst parts of me and made them look good.
“Pops,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. “You’re in a mood.”
I grumble without looking up. “You always start conversations like that or just the ones where you want something?”
“I don’t want anything,” she states. “Except for you to stop growling at everyone like a wounded bear.”
“I’m not growling.”
“You’re absolutely growling.”
She’s not wrong.
She walks further in, inspecting the place like she’s looking for contraband. “You snapped at Boots yesterday.”
“He shorted the wiring again. Nearly fried his damn eyebrows off.”
“You yelled at Tom earlier?”
“He rearranged my tools.”
“And Country Boy?”
“He deserved it.”
She arches a brow. “Did he?”
“No,” I admit.
She blows out a breath, pacing once before stabbing a finger toward me. “You’re impossible.”
“Runs in the family,” I shoot back.
“You’re being a brat.”
I finally set the wrench down and glare. “I’m your father.”
“And I’m thirty-two,” she fires back. “Adult children get to call out their dad’s when they’re being brats. It’s one of the perks. I mean if you prefer I’ll just tell you that you’re being an asshole and frankly go get laid or get your ass beat, I don’t care which but I’m sick of this man period you’re on.”
I groan and rub my forehead, feeling every bit of exhaustion that two weeks has layered onto me. Honey watches me with that perceptive stare she’s had since she was ten—back when her mama was sick and I was trying to pretend everything was fine for her sake.
She knows when I’m lying better than anyone.
She walks over slowly, planting herself right in front of the bike lift, blocking my view.
“Alright,” she studies me. “Who is she?”
I freeze.
“I—what? Who?”
She laughs, humorless. “Pops, please. You’re miserable. You’re pacing. You’re muttering. You’ve changed three carburetors that didn’t need changing on your personal cars just for something to do.”
I scowl. “Maybe I’m overwhelmed. Or I’m bored, Tiffany. Ever think of that?” Her eyes narrow at me calling her Tiffany. I never use her actual name. The moment they laid her in my arms, she was Honey. I even named my garage for her, Honey’s Hot Rods. From the first time I saw the two lines and her mom said we were having a baby, she’s been my world. Her brother came years later and only added to the joy that keeps me going on the days I want to say fuck it all.”
“You don’t get overwhelmed,” she scoffs. “You bulldoze through life. You bulldoze through problems. You bulldoze through emotions—usually mine.”
“Tiff—”
“Don’t act offended.” She points at me again. “You’re off. Way off. So either someone died and you’re hiding it, or you’re hung up on a woman. And for the love of everything holy stop calling me Tiffany! I’m Honey to you. The only person who calls me Tiffany is Smoke when he’s pissed and frankly I don’t want to hear shit from him either.”
I go back to tightening bolts because that’s easier than listening to my own daughter psychoanalyze me.
She crouches down beside me, blocking my hands again. “You can’t ignore me into silence.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re acting like a teenager.”
“And you’re acting like a therapist. Or my fuckin’ mom.”
She smirks. “Only because you need one almost as much as a shower.”
I sniff my shirt. “I smell fine.” I lie and she knows I don’t ever stink. Body odor is a pet peeve we both have. Sometimes people come in the shop stinking and yes, I won’t lie, we talk shit about them when they leave because how hard is it to use deodorant or cologne.
“Debatable.”
I grunt and toss the rag aside. “There is no woman.”
“That’s a lie,” she challenges immediately. “Try again.”
“I’m busy.”
“Lie.”
“I’ve been distracted.”
“Getting warmer.”
I grit my teeth.
She narrows her eyes. “Is it the woman you talked about from vacation?”
I pause too long.
Way too long.
Honey’s face lights up like she’s won the lottery. “Oh my god, it is! Holley, right? The one who stayed with you during the storm?”