Dad nods. “Take the rookie. I want a full report.”
Marcus pauses in the doorway and tips his hat. “We’ll talk later, Georgina.”
I keep my polite smile in place until the door shuts behind him.
Then I whirl on Dad. “You know I don’t need an escort to the fundraiser.”
Dad levels me with that same calm, iron gaze he’s used since I was a kid. “This isn’t about you, Georgina. It’s about showing strength. Family. Unity. You want to run that garage and fix tractors for the rest of your life? Fine. But don’t forget whose name you carry when you walk into that fundraiser.”
The silence hums with my heartbeat.
And then it cracks.
What he means is: be more disciplined. More polished. More presentable.
What I hear is:You’re not enough.
Not graceful enough. Not respectable enough. Not the daughter he hoped for.
Dad sighs, looking suddenly weary. “I’m just saying you work too much. You’re always running yourself ragged, and for what? Grease-stained hands and late nights in that shop? If you had someone looking after you, you wouldn’t have to?—”
“Wouldn’t have towhat, Dad?” I cut across him, stepping closer. Heat rises in my chest, and every muscle is wired tight. “Work? Be independent? Make my own choices?”
His brows knit together. “That’s not what I meant?—”
“No? Then whatdidyou mean?” My voice sharpens. “That I should give up the one thing in my life I built from the ground up to play house with your favorite deputy? That my business—something I busted my ass for—is just a cute little detour until a man shows up to ‘give me stability?’”
Dad exhales through his nose, slow and hard. “Don’t twist my words, Georgina.”
“I don’t have to twist a damn thing,” I snap. “You said Marcus was good for optics.Optics, Dad. Like I’m a prop you can pull out whenever the need arises.”
His face hardens, and he rubs his temples like I’m the problem—likeI’mdifficult for not falling in line. “You’re not seeing the big picture. Marcus could give you something real. Something solid.”
My voice drops. “Then maybe you should’ve raised a different daughter.”
That lands. He flinches, but I press on before he can regroup.
“Because we’ve been over thisa thousand times. I love what I do. The grease, the long hours, the busted knuckles. I built that garage with my own hands, and it may not be much to you, but it’severythingto me. It'smine.Stop pretending this is about what’s best for me. It’s about what’s most convenient foryou.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything he won’t say and everything I can’t take back.
Finally, Dad blows out a frustrated breath. “Georgina?—”
“No,” I cut in, yanking my keys from my pocket. “Save the speech. I’ve heard it before.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I’m already out the door and halfway down the street.
I love this town—every dusty road and rusted fence post. I love the garage, the rhythm of repair, the satisfaction of rebuilding something that everyone else thought was broken. I love being George, the woman who can lift an engine block and fix a busted axle.
But no one here sees me as someonedateable. Not as someonedesirable.
Men don’t flirt with the sheriff’s daughter. They sure as hell don’t hit on the girl who can change her oil faster than they can blink. I’m “one of the guys” when it’s convenient and “off limits” the moment it’s not.
It’s not that I’ve given up on love. I just haven’t found anyone whosees me.
I slide into my old Ford pickup and the driver’s seat molds to me like a second spine.
I need space. I need to be somewhere nobody knows me, where I can simply be me. George.
