Page 27 of The Mechanic's Match
“Sure thing. What time are you thinking?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Got it. We’ll be there. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you.”
I hang up, setting the phone on the small table beside me. The decision feels final, a nail in the coffin of whatever fragile thing Fox and I might have been building.
The hours pass slowly. I try to write for my blog, crafting witty lines about the mail-order bride trend and the quirky charms of small-town, mountain life. But every time I start to type, my mind drifts to Fox. His scowl. His rough hands. The way his voice softens when he calls me sunshine, even if it’s meant as a jab.
By the time the sun sets, I’m too restless to sit still. I venture downstairs to the bar, ordering a glass of wine. The warmth of it spreads through me, dulling the edges of my heartbreak but doing little to fill the void.
The bartender watches me from his post behind the bar, his eyes kind but knowing. “Rough day?”
I snort. “You could say that.”
“Fox isn’t easy,” he says, leaning against the counter. “But he’s solid. The kind of guy who shows up when it matters.”
I sip my wine, the words both comforting and infuriating. “Sometimes showing up isn’t enough.”
He doesn’t reply, just nods sagely and goes back to cleaning glasses.
“Hey–” a woman hurries up to the bar, all high-heels and designer bag on her shoulder, “do you know where I can find Cal Walker?”
The bartender narrows his eyes. “Out County Road 51 a few miles up the mountain. What business you got with him?”
Her eyes swing around as if looking for a familiar face–or like she’s scared. “I…I’m his…mail-order bride. I just got into townand I’m afraid I’ll–” the door swings open noisly and she jumps, fear lacing her features.
“Hey–you need me to call someone? The police maybe? You look like you just saw a ghost–”
“No!” The woman rushes, clutching her tote tighter to her chest. “Just a cab–I’ll need a cab to Cal Walker’s place.”
“Sure thing.” The bartender’s eyes cast up and down her form. It’s then I notice she’s not dressed for travel–she’s wearing a soft lacy cream dress under a heavy black coat. She looks…like abride.
“Thank you,” the woman hums, eyes darting around the bar.
The bartender calls the woman a cab, then hangs up and glances back to her. “They should be here in five minutes.” He quirks an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”
“Um–Layla.” She fumbles. “Thank you for calling.”
“No problem–can I get you a drink on the house?”
“No, I’ll just wait.” Her eyes hover on mine a long moment and then she smiles weakly, lips trembling like she’s holding back tears. I should interview this woman about her mail-order bride experience but something tells me now is not the time. Anyway, I don’t have the heart to think about it anymore—exhaustion is crawling through my veins and I just want to forget all of this disastrous experience.
I offer her a reassuring smile and then pull Fox’s flannel close, the scent of him wrapping around me reassuring. A souvenir of my disastrous mail-order bride experiment. Something to remind me that even grumpy, maddening mechanics have a way of breaking your heart.
The thought stings more than I care to admit.
Chapter Fourteen
Fox
The sun dips low over Devil’s Peak as I park my truck outside Jerry’s place. The man’s been my boss for years, one of the few people I respect enough not to tell to screw off when he’s being a hard-ass. But this isn’t about work today. This is about Amelia.
Walking up the porch steps, I pause for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck. I’ve faced down engines on the verge of exploding and survived firefights overseas, but the idea of having this conversation has my stomach in knots. I’ve made up my mind, though, and there’s no turning back.
Jerry opens the door before I even knock, his steely gaze locking on me. He’s got that same look Amelia gets when she’s about to start trouble—a mix of curiosity and defiance.
