And why hadn’t he said no?
Because she’d tucked her hair behind one ear over and over again. She’d looked up at him, unblinking, with those vivid eyes. She’d been so earnest, so hopeful, and so utterly Sable it had taken him back with a yank that had all but upended him.
Realising he’d stopped in the middle of the footpath again, Rafe rubbed a rough hand over his face, and told his feet to move. He grabbed a leather tie from around his wrist and pulled his hair back. Hard. Till the roots hurt. And made tracks to Radiance Restorations.
The scent of oil, the clang of steel on steel, the mutter of hushed voices, the tinny sound of Stan’s filthy old radio playing country music from its place on the top shelf in the workshop ran over him like quieting hands. If any place could calm the tornado in his head, this was it.
For this was his home.
His father’s old place had been a prison. The Airstream was Janie’s happy cave. His Melbourne apartment, his London place, the hotels he stayed in when meeting clients around the world were simply places to sleep between jobs.
Work, endeavour, taking something broken and putting it back together better than it ever was—that was his happy place.
“Boss!” That was Fred McGlinty—tufts of sweaty red hair poking out of the edges of his grey on black Radiance Restorations cap as he ambled over.
Rafe nodded, not quite ready for words.
“Good, thanks,” said Fred, oblivious. “Check this out.”
Heading to a Charger up on blocks—only a polish and new tyres from completion—Fred popped the lid, slid behind the wheel, left the door open and gave the engine a rev.
It sounded great. Throaty and rough, but clean. A dream compared to all the other stuff in Rafe’s head right now. “Again,” he demanded.
Grinning, Fred revved and revved and revved.
And Rafe’s twisted heart slowly but surely came down from the ledge.
Sable had meant something to him once. Strike that—she’d meant everything. Ensuring her happiness had been his number one goal in life. But the choices she’d made had changed all that. Irrevocably. She’d broken him when she’d left. In a way his mother’s leaving and his father’s volatility never had. But he’d put himself back together—with determination, and guts, and by sticking to the choices he’d made in his life.
And while it was patently clear the attraction still hummed beneath the surface of every word they’d uttered, it was not, and never would be, the same.
He was no longer accountable for her dreams.
Ed, Fred’s twin, poked his head over the engine. “Gorgeous, right?”
Utterly, he thought, then realised Ed was talking about the car.
The engine cut off. The guttural growl echoing in their ears for a few moments before the soft strains of Stan’s radio once more took over.
A cough came from the corner of the garage, where Stan himself sat. All weathered skin, and bristling silver moustache. Local newspaper open on the small table before him. “You still in town, boy?”
“So it seems,” Rafe said.
Stan closed the newspaper and shot him a glance. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Mercy Sutton’s girl being back in town.”
Rafe’s fingers clutched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Hell, he couldn’t even hear about her without feeling that whump of heat rush through him.
“Who?” Ed asked.
“Rafe’s old flame,” said Stan. “First car he ever worked on with me he was building for her. A hunk of junk VW Beetle they dragged out of the creek and called Rosebud. Or Periwinkle or some such thing. Whatever happened to that thing?”
Ed blinked. And Fred cleared his throat.
The muscle below Rafe’s right eye jerked.
“Boys,” said Rafe, his voice like sandpaper, “take an early lunch. Grab some petty cash and head to Bear’s.”
Fred and Ed didn’t have to be asked twice; they left so fast they practically laid rubber. Leaving Rafe with Stan and Neil Diamond crooning in the background.
“You okay, boy?” said Stan, eyes narrowed his way. “You don’t look yourself.”
Rafe held his gaze and considered his answer.
Stan had seen Rafe through plenty. Had stood beside him at his father’s funeral. Had sourced the jackhammer that had destroyed the foundations of his father’s house.
A single man, like himself. Never married. No kids of his own. And content with how he’d lived his life. Stan had been a role model in the way his own father had never been.
But this? Sable’s request? It felt too big. Too private. Even if he was unquestionably going to say no.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine, you say,” Stan grumbled., shaking his head. “Most dangerous word in the English language. Let me know if you need a hand?” He cocked his chin toward the cars that still needed tending. But Rafe knew the old man really meant he had two ears and would listen to anything Rafe had to get off his chest.
“Will do,” said Rafe, then he made a beeline for the rusty old Road Runner languishing in the end bay, hitched his jeans, lay himself down on the tray and slid underneath.
In the shade and the cool, surrounded by metal and rust and oil and purpose, Rafe made his decision.
He’d find Sable, and tell her no.
And then he’d head off to Sydney quick smart. Without her nearby, the mud in his head would clear, the unrelenting work ethic that had ground to a halt the moment he’d seen her sitting in the café would swing back into overdrive, and he’d get back to living the perfectly fine life he’d been living before she’d swept back into town.
CHAPTER FIVE
SABLE MANAGED TO work her way through two more espressos at Bear’s before he questioned why she was sitting in the window seat, watching the street as if it would disappear if she blinked.
“It’s the only patch of sunlight in your joint,” she returned.
He leaned in beside her, making a
