She’d always gotten his love for making something custom, unique, one-of-a-kind. Even when she hadn’t known what the parts were called or what they even did, she’d had a great eye for what looked good.
Unlike her, he’d been around engines since he was a kid. He’d known the names of car parts before he’d been old enough to drive, courtesy of his mechanic father, who’d specialized in customizing trucks. Still did. Not that Maverick had seen him in a long time, because he avoided the sonofabitch as much as possible. It’d been the better part of a year since they’d last run into each other. Which was too recent for Mav’s taste.
But the love of engines, of building and rebuilding, of putting your own custom spin on something? Yeah, he had to credit that to his old man. At least he had one positive thing that the guy did that he could point to.
Motorcycles, though . . . that he’d learned from Doc. Maverick had spent a lot of time with his uncle growing up, and Doc didn’t believe in idle hands. Never had.
“Yeah, vintage is the goal,” Maverick said, moving closer. The bike stood between them. “The base was actually a 2004 Chevy, but it’s been reengineered so heavily you’d never know. The goal is something similar to a 1950s hot rod style chopper.”
She grinned, her eyes flashing.
“What?” he asked, her smile beckoning his.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you talk bike makes and models.” Her smile got considerably sadder.
In a weird way, that gave him hope. “Too long?” he asked. Pushing her. Just a little.
“Too long,” she said. “Definitely too long.” She turned away like maybe the admission had been a lot to make. But that didn’t take away from the satisfaction he felt. Not one bit.
She wandered around the space a little, looking at a couple of decorative ornaments he had laying on one counter. Leaning in close to some photographs he had pinned to a corkboard. And coming to—
Shit. Why hadn’t he thought about this?
“What’s this one?” she asked, her hand grabbing the dusty drop cloth covering the bike.
“Alexa, don’t—”
The black cloth puddled on the floor around Tyler’s repaired bike. In the months after her brother died, but before it was clear that Alexa wasn’t going to take Maverick back, he’d fixed the bike. It had felt like a way for him to pay respect to his friend, and he’d thought Alexa could sell the bike if she didn’t want the reminder. He knew she could use the money. At least, back then. But he never even got the chance to offer.
Shit.
“This is . . . is this . . .” She shook her head, her back still to him. “It’s Tyler’s.” She said her brother’s name so low Mav barely heard it.
“Yeah,” he said, coming up behind her and aching for opening her up to this right now.
“You fixed it?”
He hated that he couldn’t read the emotion in her voice, and finally gave in to the need to see her face. Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to him. “Yeah,” he said, leaning down to meet her eye to eye.
“Why?” she whispered, those pretty hazel eyes glassy—and that glassiness gutted him.
“For him,” he said. A tear finally fell, and he caught it with his thumb. “And for you.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “But I . . . I hurt you.” More tears fell.
He wasn’t going to deny it. “You did.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her face crumpling. “I was such a wreck when he died.” She shook her head. “And I made so many mistakes. And pushing you away was the biggest of them all. And I’m so fucking sorry, Maverick.” She clasped her hand over a sob.
He pulled her into his chest, wrapped one arm around her back, and cradled her head in his other hand. “I know, Al. I get it. And I did then, even though I hated it.” And, fuck, but hearing her words made him rage, too. Because he’d let himself be pushed away, hadn’t he? He’d known she was a wreck, but hadn’t done the hard work to stick it out and carry her through.
God, why hadn’t he seen how much she needed him? Because hearing her now, it was so damn clear that he’d failed her.
And Tyler.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said, his voice like gravel. Her tears scalded him with guilt and regret, but he’d take every one. For her. He stroked his hand through her soft hair, loving the way it felt. Loving the way she felt pressed against him.
“No,” she said, her voice no more than a rasp. She lifted her eyes to his. “All on me.”
“Fuck, Al. Rarely is anything in a relationship all on one person. That day in the cemetery . . .” He shook his head. “You have no idea how many times I’ve wished that I’d given you what you needed. That . . . that was on me.”