RECKLESS VOWS

Calloway’s Garage

I knew her car before I let myself recognize her.

Rental plates. Tires too clean for Fir Street. Parked at an angle that gave the driver a clear view of the garage.

Danny was explaining something about a Silverado transmission when the woman behind the windshield shifted.

“Boss?” he said.

“Finish the flush.”

“You listening?”

“No.”

I crossed the street.

She lowered the window halfway before I reached her. The same gray-blue eyes looked up at me. Older. Harder. Still capable of finding every weak place I had.

“Wren.”

“Rhett.”

She said my name like it belonged to a stranger.

I leaned against the roof. “You planning to introduce yourself?”

“I thought you knew who I was.”

“I know who you were.”

Her fingers tightened on the wheel.

Good. At least I could still make her feel something.

“You look good,” I said.

“So do you.”

“Liar.”

A flash of heat crossed her face. “You always were full of yourself.”

“You used to like that.”

“I was seventeen.”

“You were twenty when you left.”

The words landed. Her eyes moved to the garage, then back to me.

“People change.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

“Maybe because it’s easier than admitting what stayed the same.”

Her mouth parted.

I wanted to put my hand against the back of her neck. I wanted to drag her out of the car and find out whether she still fit against me the way she had before grief turned us into enemies.

Instead, I said, “Marlene told Casey you’re writing a magazine piece.”

“I am.”

“What magazine?”

“I haven’t chosen one.”

“That’s not how magazines work.”

“You sound very informed.”

“I’ve been interviewed before.”

“By federal agents?”

The question sat between us.

There it was.

I folded my arms. “You came here to investigate the club.”

“I came here to ask questions.”

“About the club.”

“About Eli.”

“Same thing?”

“For me, it is.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She hated that it happened. Her shoulders drew back, as if posture could force the weakness out of her.

I knew that trick. I had watched her use it in high school when her father yelled, at the hospital when Eli’s body was brought in, and at the funeral when she looked at me as if I had personally pulled the trigger.

“You should’ve asked me eight years ago,” I said.

“I tried.”

“No. You looked at me and decided.”

Her eyes sharpened. “You were standing beside him when he died.”

“And I’ve spent eight years wishing I could change that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

The garage seemed to shrink around us.

“Because I couldn’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

She pushed open the car door and climbed out. I moved back, but her shoulder brushed my chest as she passed. Her hair smelled faintly of rain and something citrusy.

She stopped close enough that the tips of our boots nearly touched.

“You’re still doing it,” she said.

“Doing what?”

“Deciding what I can handle.”

“I know what you can handle.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in eight years.”

“I saw you leave.”

The words came out lower than I intended.

Her chin lifted. “You let me.”

“I thought you wanted to go.”

“You watched me drive away.”

“You never looked back.”

Her breath caught.

For one reckless second, neither of us moved. The sun warmed one side of her face. A strand of auburn hair had escaped her bun and rested against her cheek.

My hand rose before I could stop it.

She flinched.

I dropped it.

The tiny movement cut deeper than anything she had said.

“Come by tonight,” I told her. “After close.”

“To ask about Eli?”

“To ask whatever you came here to ask.”

“And you’ll tell me the truth?”

“I’ll tell you mine.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

A truck pulled into the lot. Danny leaned out the driver’s window.

“Rhett, you want me to move the—”

“Inside, Danny.”

The kid vanished.

Wren glanced toward the garage. “You’re the boss now?”

“Temporary promotion.”

“Casey said you’re about to become president.”

I looked at her. “Casey talks too much.”

“Does she?”

“Only when she’s nervous.”

“Is she nervous about me?”

“Everyone’s nervous about you.”

“That’s flattering.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Her phone vibrated. She looked down.

I caught the name before she turned the screen away.

Doyle.

Something cold settled beneath my ribs.

“What does your editor want?”

“Work.”

“Tell him to wait.”

“You don’t give orders to my employer.”

“Didn’t say I did.”

“You implied it.”

“I’m good at that.”

“Among other things.”

The words slipped out with enough heat to change the air.

Her gaze dropped to my mouth.

Mine followed hers.

The dog from earlier trotted between us, tail brushing my leg. Wren stepped away first.

“Tonight,” I said.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You always did think too long.”

“And you always acted too fast.”

“Not always.”

Her eyes met mine.

I let the silence answer for me.

She swallowed, turned, and got back into the car.

I watched her drive away until the rental disappeared around the corner.

Then I went inside and found the file she had left behind on the passenger seat reflected in my mind: my name, my club, and the past I had spent eight years keeping away from the woman who still made me want to break every promise I had made to myself.

“You still keep the old lift?” she asked.

I glanced toward the back bay. “You remember that?”

“I remember you dropping a wrench on your foot and blaming the wrench.”

“The wrench had an attitude.”

“You screamed.”

“I expressed myself.”

A real smile threatened her mouth. I wanted it. The want moved through me with enough force to make my fingers curl.

She caught me looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That answer never worked on me.”

“It worked when you were trying to get me to kiss you behind the school gym.”

“You kissed me.”

“You stood there.”

“I was waiting to see if you were brave.”

“And?”

“You were late.”

The space between us tightened again. Danny’s music thumped from the bay. Somewhere inside, a compressor kicked on.

Wren glanced at the open garage. “You have employees now.”

“Two employees. Casey handles the books.”

“Casey?”

“My sister.”

“I remember Casey.”

“She remembers you.”

“Does she?”

“She remembers you breaking her nose with a softball.”

“That was an accident.”

“She says you laughed.”

“I was thirteen.”

“She still holds a grudge.”

“Good. At least someone here does.”

The words came out before I could soften them.

Wren’s expression changed. “You think I don’t?”

“I think you’ve had eight years to practice.”

She stepped closer. The edge of her jacket brushed my wrist.

“Then tell me what to be angry about.”

My throat tightened.

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you start asking me in the middle of the street, I might answer.”

Her eyes held mine.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”