Ryder:
I always thought grand openings were for suits and ties. Meaningless photos and fake speeches.
For people who polished their lives into i********: feeds and shook hands like they were born with silver spoons in their mouths.
But this? This damn sure wasn’t that.
This was oil-stained legacies and years of busted knuckles. This was street-bred grit wrapped in chrome and fire. This was her.
This was ours.
And it was perfect.
The garage bay doors were thrown open wide. Music pounded out of the speakers, the beat hitting in time with the steady buzz of conversation and revving engines in the lot. The smell of new leather, burnt rubber, and faint French toast—thanks to her insisting on serving food from the diner—hung in the air like a damn religion.
But my eyes? They were only on
