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Chapter Thirty-One

Author: Anne Kingston
last update publish date: 2026-10-21 07:58:07

The phone rang at 9:47 a.m., right as Charlie was halfway through torquing the intake manifold bolts on a 2009 Camry that had no business still being on the road. She recognized the ringtone. She'd assigned the classical piano snippet to Corbin as a joke after he'd admitted to attending orchestra performances. She fished the phone out of her back pocket with greasy fingers, wedging it between her shoulder and ear.

"This better be good, Barker. I've got a manifold gasket that's testing my fait
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  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Eight

    A few minutes later, they made it back to the living room, where Charlie claimed her usual spot on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. Corbin settled next to her, and she immediately curled against his side, draping her legs across his lap.He ran a hand over the plaid fabric covering his thigh. “These really are remarkably comfortable.”“Told you.”“Thank you, Charlie. They’re considerably better suited to cuddling than my suit.”“See? I’m improving your quality of life already.”“Immeasurably.”She tipped her face up and accepted the kiss he offered, smiling when he lingered. Then she reached for the remote.“Now, let’s see what passes for quality entertainment around here.”She scrolled through the streaming options until she found a show about restoring neglected classic cars. The episode featured a badly deteriorated muscle car that had apparently spent several decades sitting in a barn. “Oh, this should be good.”Corbin examined the screen. “That poor thing.”“I know. Lo

  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Seven

    Friday afternoon arrived gray and damp. Charlie spent the day handling a steady stream of customers and a stubborn alternator on Pat’s Civic that fought her for two hours before surrendering. By four o’clock, she was wiping grease from her hands when her phone rang. Corbin’s name filled the screen.“Hey.”“Hi.” His voice carried a particular flatness, a weariness that compressed his usual clipped tone into something heavier. “How’s your day?”“Greasy. Yours?”“Long. I’ve been in meetings since nine o’clock. Quarterly reviews. Budget projections. A very enthusiastic presentation about supply chain optimization that lasted ninety minutes longer than necessary.”Charlie leaned against the workbench. “Everything okay?”“Work is demanding. That’s all. I’m fine.” A pause. “I’m tired.”The admission was quiet, almost reluctant, like he was confessing to a weakness he didn’t usually acknowledge. Charlie heard something beneath the words, the exhaustion of someone who spent every day being the

  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Six

    Charlie nodded, looking out across the lot again. For the first time in years, the future of Thompson Auto seemed like something she could shape rather than simply maintain.“And the other possibility?” Corbin asked gently.She glanced at him. “What other possibility?”“The one where we find somewhere to live together.”“Oh.” She felt her cheeks warm. “That one.”“I’d like to talk about that, too.”Charlie turned toward him fully. There was something in his voice that made her set her coffee aside. “Okay.”Corbin took both her hands in his. “I want to be very clear about something, Charlie. My interest in you isn’t short-term.”Her heart gave a hard, unexpected thump. “I know that.”“I hope you do. But I want to say it anyway.” His thumbs moved gently over her knuckles. “I’m forty-six years old. I’ve spent most of my adult life building a company, and I’ve been very happy with what I’ve accomplished. But I know what I want out of the rest of my life, and I’m not interested in a relati

  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Five

    They walked from the house to the garage, and Charlie unlocked the side door. The familiar smell hit her immediately. The pegboard wall of tools hung in its obsessive arrangement, each outline labeled in Lionel’s careful handwriting. She flipped the radio on, tuned to the alternative rock station that filled the space with comfortable noise.Charlie started with Mrs. Feeney’s Buick, guiding Corbin through the process of lifting it safely on the new Bendman SP-10X lift in Bay Two. She showed him how to position the pads, how to check the balance, how to listen for the hydraulic engagement that meant everything was secure.He absorbed every detail with focused attention, asking questions that demonstrated he understood the engineering behind the equipment even if he lacked experience with the specific operation. She found herself enjoying the explanations, the way his brow furrowed when she described a technique and then cleared when he grasped the logic behind it.She set him to organi

  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Four

    The first thing Charlie registered was the weight of an arm across her waist and the steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing beside her. Her eyes opened to Thursday morning light filtering through the curtains she’d forgotten to close, painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets. The clock on her nightstand read 7:14. She turned her head on the pillow.Corbin was still there. Ordinarily, by this point, the space beside her would be cool and empty, the sheets pulled back, his side of the bed abandoned for a shower, a charcoal suit, and the long drive back to Manhattan. She’d been prepared for waking up to the sound of his car pulling out of her driveway, or to nothing at all, just the quiet absence where he’d been.He lay on his side, facing her, his dark hair disheveled across the pillow in a way that no boardroom would ever permit. His breathing was deep and even, his features slack with sleep, the rigid set of his jaw completely absent. He looked younger. He looked like someon

  • What Money Can't Buy   Chapter Fifty-Three

    Charlie approached the office door. She shifted the lunch bags to one hand, straightened her coat with the other, and knocked.“Come in,” Corbin called.She opened the door and stepped inside. His office was exactly as she remembered it from Sunday. Corner location. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan on two walls. The leather chair behind the broad desk. The bookshelves lined with engineering texts and industry awards. Corbin sat behind the desk, his attention on a document, charcoal suit crisp, tie knotted precisely.He looked up.For a moment, he simply stared. His pen stopped moving. His hand stopped moving. Everything stopped. His eyes traveled from her face to the lunch bags to her face again, as though the information refused to assemble into a coherent picture.Then his entire face lit up. “Charlie?&r

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