1. Griffin

1

GRIFFIN

“ C ome on, beautiful. Don’t do this to me.” I press my palm against my truck’s hood, the metal warm beneath my touch. The engine is making a sound that reminds me too much of artillery fire—precise, threatening, and impossible to ignore.

I’ve tried everything in my toolbox over the past week. Changed the oil, checked the spark plugs, tightened every bolt I can reach. But this morning’s sound is different. Final. Like my truck is taking its last breaths.

Above, spring sunlight filters through new leaves, dappling my truck’s red paint with shifting patterns. I pop the hood and brace my hands on either side, letting out a slow breath as I study the engine bay one more time. Everything looks normal—serpentine belt, mounting bolts, all the usual suspects. But that rhythmic pounding tells a different story.

The kind of story that requires a mechanic.

The realization settles cold in my gut. Up here on the mountain, my truck isn’t just transportation. It’s my lifeline to everything beyond these forested slopes. I need it running solid to stock my cabin with supplies, to handle the rough terrain on grocery runs. I especially need it for reaching the veterans I counsel when phone calls aren’t enough, when they need someone sitting across from them, someone who understands.

I lower the hood with extra care. Birds scatter from nearby trees as I ease into the driver’s seat and steer my truck down the mountain road, away from the safety of home.

Miles later, the mountain gives way to foothills, then to coastal lowlands. The trees thin out, offering glimpses of grayish-blue water through the branches. The air grows heavier, laden with salt and morning fog. After a long stretch of winding highway, I take the exit for Fairhope.

The town spreads out before me—neat rows of storefronts and cherry trees bursting with pink blossoms. It’s the kind of place that should feel welcoming, but my skin prickles with unease as I drive down Main Street.

I find Blake’s Auto Body in a weathered building with faded white trim. The gravel lot crunches under my tires as I pull in, the sign overhead promising Quality Work, Fair Prices in sun-bleached letters. I cut the engine of my truck and climb out, rolling my shoulders against the tension gathered there.

The office inside is barely bigger than my truck’s cab. Condensation beads on the single window where cool morning air meets the warmth within. A man in worn jeans and a white tee occupies one of two plastic chairs, flipping through a car magazine that’s seen better days. The desk sits empty except for a business card holder and a potted plant that’s thriving despite the cramped space. A fan spins lazily in the corner, pushing around warm air and the sharp scent of motor oil.

I step toward the open doorway leading to the garage. “Hello?”

The whine of power tools cuts off. Footsteps approach, and a woman emerges from behind a lifted car. Her movements are fluid, even graceful, as she wipes her hands on a red shop rag. Her grease-stained coveralls should hide her figure, but instead they reveal curves that draw my eyes before I can stop myself.

When she lifts her head, the full force of her gaze hits me—her blue eyes are direct and assessing, framed by thick lashes that temporarily make me forget what I came here for.

“What can I help you with?” she asks. Her voice is relaxed and professional, with an undertone that makes me want to lean in closer to catch every word.

“My engine is making a sound it shouldn’t.” I force myself to focus on the problem at hand, not the way morning light plays across her pretty features. “It started as a subtle tapping. Now it sounds like a time bomb counting down under my hood.”

She glances out toward the lot. “That red pickup yours?”

“Yes.”

“I can take a look, run some diagnostics once I finish up my current job.” Her gaze shifts to the cramped waiting area visible through the office’s open doorway, then back to me. Morning light catches her eyes, revealing flecks of gold in the blue. “The cafe up the street has decent coffee. Give me about forty-five minutes?”

The last thing I want is to walk into a cafe full of people. But there’s no room for me in the auto shop’s waiting area, and the truth is, I could use a cup of coffee. So, despite myself, I give a nod in response.

The beauty standing in front of me turns back toward the garage with a poise that shouldn’t be possible in steel-toed boots, her hips swaying just enough to make my mouth go dry. I drag my eyes away, silently chiding myself for staring at this woman like a lovestruck teenager.

I head out of the auto shop, telling myself to get it together. The cafe is on the next block up, its windows full of locals living their perfect small-town lives. New flowers fill the window boxes, bright splashes of pink and yellow celebrating the change of seasons. My jaw tightens as I push open the door, setting off a cheerful bell that feels more like a warning.

I walk inside, and conversations fade. Eyes track my movement to the counter. The barista takes my order without meeting my gaze, her movements quick and stiff.

I try not to let their reactions get to me, but it stings, being treated like this.

Coffee in hand, I head to the condiment station for a lid. But the spot where the lids should be sits empty. Of course. I could walk back over to the counter and ask the barista for one, but instead I turn toward the door, trying to ignore the weight of stares against my back.

This is why I avoid town. Every sideways glance and whispered conversation reminds me that I don’t belong here, that I’m an intruder in their little paradise.

The bell chimes again as I push through the door—right into someone’s shoulder. The collision disorients me, sending hot coffee splashing onto my chest and drawing a sharp curse from my lips. Not all of it spills, but the dark stain spreading across my shirt feels like one more way this town is marking me as an outsider. A few people on the sidewalk stop to stare, not even pretending to hide their interest in my misfortune.

The walk back to the auto body shop feels three times as far. Locals part around me, their eyes sliding away when I look at them. Nine months since I moved here, and they still treat me like I’m made of razor wire.

I reach the shop with coffee dripping down my shirt, planning to just wait outside. But through the window, I see the waiting area is empty now—my first stroke of luck all day. I walk into the office and sink into the newly vacated chair, my frame too large for the cheap plastic seat.

Taking a careful sip of what’s left of my coffee, I let my eyes wander over the desk, where the business card holder catches my attention. The cards nestled inside are printed in plain bold lettering: Jordana Blake, Owner & Lead Mechanic .

Jordana. Her name settles in my chest in a way it shouldn’t.

Through the open doorway, I can see her inspecting my truck. She moves with precise confidence, her hands sure and capable as they check every inch of my engine. Something shifts in my chest watching her with my truck. Part of me bristles seeing anyone else’s hands on it—that truck has been my only constant companion since I left the service. But also there’s something alluring about her competence, the way she seems to read the engine like a book. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Just pure skill and focus.

I know I shouldn’t stare. But I’m too mesmerized by the way she leans in to listen to something, her fingers tracing along metal with extra care. Then she leans in deeper, pressing her luscious curves against the fender of my truck. Heat rises under my skin, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with how much I’m noticing.

Then, suddenly, she’s walking over to the office. I straighten up, trying to look like I haven’t been watching her every move.

“I’ve got bad news.” Her voice is firm but kind. “Your engine needs a full rebuild. The damage is extensive.”

“Are you sure?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyebrow arches, and I realize I’m being that guy—the one who assumes he knows better. Heat creeps up my neck.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have questioned you.” I run a hand through my hair, genuinely ashamed. “It’s just that this is going to be a major inconvenience for me.”

“That’s what loaner cars are for.” She gestures through the window to a small sedan parked outside. “You’re welcome to use that while we work on your truck.”

One look at the sedan tells me everything I need to know. “That won’t make it up the mountain road. The terrain’s too rough.”

She takes my refusal in stride. “Is there anyone who could give you rides for a while? Or maybe you could stay in town while the work’s being done?”

The thought of spending days in Fairhope makes my skin crawl. And my closest mountain neighbors—a family of four who always seem impossibly happy—are practically strangers. I shake my head. “Neither of those will work.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of my limited options. Then she says something that throws me completely off balance: “Take my truck.”

I stare at her, certain I’ve misheard. People in Fairhope don’t offer me anything, let alone something this personal. “What?”

“Take my truck,” she repeats, more firmly this time. Her blue eyes hold mine, unflinching. “I live above the shop, so I can use the loaner. It’s not a big deal.”

Everything in me wants to refuse. It’s too much, too personal, especially from someone in this town. The offer creates a debt, a connection I’m not sure I want. But my options disappeared the moment she said full rebuild and something in her straightforward gaze makes it hard to maintain my usual walls.

“Okay.” The word feels strange in my mouth, like admitting defeat. “Thank you.”

She starts explaining details about the repair, but then her eyes catch on my shirt. “Coffee casualty?”

I glance down at the stain. “Lid shortage.”

“Here.” She grabs a clean shop rag from a nearby shelf, offering it with a small smile that makes my chest clench. “Don’t know how much that’ll help, but it’s something.”

I take the rag from her, touched by this small gesture from a woman who doesn’t even know me, who has every reason to treat me like the rest of the town does. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

We wrap up the paperwork, and she leads me out to her truck. While she clears some things from the cab, I catch little glimpses of her life—a yoga mat rolled up behind the seat, a dog-eared paperback with a starry-eyed couple on the cover, a travel mug decorated with sea turtles. Small details I shouldn’t find fascinating but do. They paint a picture of someone who loves her work but isn’t defined by it, who has a life full of interests and passions I know nothing about.

“I’ll call as soon as I know more about your truck,” she says, handing me her keys. Our fingers almost brush, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or disappointed when they don’t.

The almost-touch also makes me too damn aware of how long it’s been since I’ve touched anyone.

When I get into her truck, it feels different from mine—newer, cleaner, with a lingering hint of lavender. But it’s still clearly a working vehicle, with mud on the floor mats and a few dings in the dash. The contradiction suits her—feminine but not delicate, strong without trying to prove anything.

Relief floods through me as I leave Fairhope behind, the town shrinking in the rearview mirror. But as I wait to turn onto the highway, I find myself distracted by a crystal suncatcher swinging from her mirror. It keeps dancing in the spring sunlight and blocking my view. Irritated with everything—the suncatcher, this whole situation, my unwanted attraction to Jordana—I reach up to push it aside.

The chain snaps in my hand with a tiny sound that feels deafening in the quiet cab.

“Shit.” I stare at the broken object, heat rising in my face. I’ve had her truck for five minutes, and I’m already breaking things. I toss the suncatcher onto the passenger seat as a gap opens in the traffic, trying to ignore the guilt settling in my stomach as I accelerate onto the highway.