The morning light had an autumn quality, honey thick and generous, transforming everything it touched into something worth remembering. It painted the mountains in shades of amber and gold, turned the shop windows into mirrors of flame, made even the practical lines of the garage seem softer, more forgiving.
Her phone sat silent on the workbench. Marcus had texted twice over the weekend, professionally persistent without crossing into pushy. Today he needed an answer. Today she had to choose between the practical decision and the impractical life she’d somehow built here.
She thought about Patrick O’Hara. Aidan’s grandfather had been one of the first people to make her feel welcome in Laurel Valley, stopping by the garage in those early days when she was still learning everyone’s names and their cars’ peculiarities. He’d had that Irish gift for making you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room, even when you were just a stranger covered in motor oil.
“You’ve got healing hands,” he’d told her once, watching her work on a 1965 Mustang. “Not everyone can bring dead things back to life. That’s a gift, that is. A kind of magic.”
She’d thought he was just being kind, the way old men sometimes were, full of blarney and compliments that cost nothing to give. But there’d been something in his eyes—a recognition, maybe, of one outsider to another. He’d been gone three years now, but she still sometimes expected to see him walking through the door with that rolling gait and that smile that made you believe in possibilities.
She was underneath a Bentley, addressing a minor exhaust issue that the owner insisted was “catastrophic,” when she heard the door open. Not Ralph’s cheerful entrance that always announced itself with off-key humming, or Danny’s exhausted shuffle accompanied by the scent of baby formula. These footsteps carried purpose, moving through the garage with the determination of someone who’d spent the weekend building up to something.
“Morning, Dylan.”
Aidan’s voice made her grip tighten on the wrench. She’d managed to avoid thinking about him for almost ten whole minutes—a personal record for the weekend.
“Morning,” she called back, not emerging from under the Bentley, not ready to face those green eyes that had haunted her all weekend, mixing unhelpfully with thoughts of escape routes and signing bonuses.
She heard him move closer, could feel him standing just outside her peripheral vision. The silence stretched between them, unusual for Aidan who typically filled every space with easy conversation about weekend plans or the weather or whatever project was currently driving him to distraction.
“Busy weekend?” he finally asked, and something in his tone made her slide out from under the car.
He was leaning against her tool chest, aiming for casual but missing by miles. His jaw was tight, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he was looking at her with an intensity that made her stomach perform a complicated maneuver that definitely wasn’t in any anatomy textbook.
Dylan sat up on the creeper, wiping her hands on a shop rag with meticulous care. “Quiet,” she said. “You?”
“Family dinner yesterday. The usual chaos.” He paused, and she could see him choosing his words like he was selecting tools for a delicate repair. “Sophie mentioned she saw you having lunch at The Lampstand on Friday.”
There it was. Dylan turned her attention to the rag in her hands, cleaning grease from beneath her nails with focused precision. “I did.”
“With Marcus Rowan.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Pacific Custom Restoration has a reputation for excellence.” The words came out neutral, but she could hear the effort it took, like watching someone lift an engine block and pretend it weighed nothing. “He trying to poach you?”
Dylan stood slowly, meeting his eyes directly because she’d learned long ago that difficult conversations were best faced head-on. “He made me an offer.”
Something flickered across Aidan’s face—surprise, certainly, but underneath it something else. Something that looked almost like hurt. “Are you considering it?”
“I’d be foolish not to.” She kept her voice level, professional, the same tone she used when explaining to customers why their repairs would cost more than expected. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“Right. Of course.” He nodded, but his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the edge of the tool chest. “When do you have to decide?”
“Today.”
The word hung between them like suspended exhaust, toxic and impossible to ignore. Aidan pushed off from the tool chest, pacing a few steps before turning back to her. His usual easy confidence had been replaced with something more raw, more real, and it made him paradoxically more attractive than any of his practiced charm ever had.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. “A favor. And I know the timing is terrible, and you’ve got this big decision to make, but…”
He trailed off, running his hand through his hair in a gesture she’d seen a thousand times when he was frustrated with a stubborn bolt or a diagnosis that didn’t make sense. But she’d never seen him frustrated with words before. Aidan O’Hara always knew what to say.
“What kind of favor?” Dylan asked, curiosity overriding caution.
“My grandfather left me something. Instructions, really. A treasure hunt.” He unfolded the paper, handling it with unexpected reverence. “You remember my grandfather.”
It wasn’t a question. Patrick O’Hara wasn’t someone you forgot.
“He used to bring me butterscotch candies,” Dylan said softly, surprising herself with the memory. “Said they were for customers, but he always made sure I got one.”
