2. Jordana

2

JORDANA

“ I can’t believe you just gave him your truck.”

I’m still looking out the office window at the street that Griffin just drove away on when Esther’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I turn around and see her leaning against the doorframe between the office and garage, wiping grease from her hands with deliberate care.

“You know that guy is dangerous, right?” she says, giving me a knowing look.

“You mean the rumors going around about him?” I say. “Come on. Half of what people say about anyone isn’t true.”

“This isn’t just gossip. Everyone knows?—”

“Everyone knows what they’ve heard from someone who heard it from someone else.” I move past her into the garage, drawn to Griffin’s truck. The engine’s damage tells its own story—one of someone trying to fix things alone until he had no choice but to ask for help. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to steal my truck. He’ll be back for his own the second it’s ready.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

Maybe not, but I’m not about to admit to Esther that I felt an unexpected pull toward Griffin when he walked into my shop, a feeling that was more than sympathy for his situation. Griffin intrigues me. And my gut is telling me that he deserves to be given a fair chance, regardless of what anyone says about him.

The sound of male footsteps enters the shop, and Esther’s voice goes sugary-sweet. “Hey, Trey.”

I don’t need to turn around to picture the bright, practiced smile that’s undoubtedly spread across Trey Whitcomb’s face. I focus on Griffin’s engine instead, studying the wear patterns that speak of long mountain drives.

“Morning, ladies. I brought sustenance.” Trey’s voice carries that artificial warmth that always reminds me of a car salesman. “Fresh from the bakery.”

“You’re so sweet,” Esther gushes.

I straighten up, plastering on my professional smile. “Thanks, Trey. That’s thoughtful.” What I don’t say is that his thoughtfulness always feels calculated, like every gesture is designed to earn points rather than actually make someone happy.

“Anything for my favorite lady mechanics.” His eyes drop to my chest for a fraction of a second—just like they did throughout our entire disaster of a dinner date last month. “Hey, Jordana…I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch today? What do you say?”

“Thanks, but I’m backed up with work.” I gesture to Griffin’s truck. “Major engine rebuild.”

“Rain check, then?”

“I don’t think so, Trey. Sorry.” I turn back to the engine, making it clear the conversation is over.

Trey laughs, as if I’ve said something funny, and then says, “All right. I’ll catch you girls later.”

After Trey leaves, Esther practically deflates against the workbench. “What is wrong with you, Jordana? That man is a walking dream.”

I resist an eye-roll. “Yeah, a dream who spent our entire date talking about his investment portfolio and staring at my breasts.”

“So he’s not perfect. But he’s gorgeous, successful, and actually interested in something besides cars and engines.” Esther sighs dramatically. “I wish he’d look at my breasts.”

“Esther.” I give my employee-slash-friend a serious look. “You deserve someone who sees you—all of you. Not just your body, not just what you can do for them. Someone who listens when you talk, who doesn’t treat kindness like it’s currency to be spent.”

“You’re too picky.”

Maybe. But I’d rather be picky than settle for someone like Trey, who treats women like trophies to be won. Before I can stop myself, my mind drifts to Griffin, thinking of the way he’d looked at me with appreciation but also pulled his gaze away, like he was scolding himself for looking. And how he’d apologized for questioning my expertise, actually meaning it. And how freaking hot he was.

I push those thoughts aside. Attractive or not, Griffin is a customer. Nothing more.

“Hand me that socket set,” I tell Esther. “This engine isn’t going to rebuild itself.”

I spend the next hour starting the disassembly process while Esther handles a string of oil changes for other customers. The work I’m doing is methodical, almost meditative, but for once it doesn’t settle my mind. I keep seeing Griffin’s storm-gray eyes, how they’d lingered on me before darting away.

When I need the truck’s owner’s manual to check some specs, I pull open the driver’s door and slide into the seat. The interior of the cab holds traces of Griffin’s woodsy, masculine scent, and warmth stirs in my chest.

I lean over and open the glove box. An empty prescription bottle falls out and hits the floor mat. I reach down to grab it, and my fingers tighten around the plastic when I see the label has been deliberately scratched off, leaving only white fragments behind. My stomach clenches at how methodical the removal looks.

I should put it back. It’s none of my business what medications my customers take. But as I reach to return the bottle, my eye catches on something else in the glove box: a plastic bag holding several identical cell phones.

As in, the kind you buy with cash, use, and toss.

My chest tightens as I stare at the phones. There could be an innocent explanation. But I can’t immediately think of one, and combined with the unlabeled pills…it doesn’t sit entirely right.

Every customer deserves privacy. But what I just discovered makes those rumors about Griffin start echoing in my head.

I tuck the empty pill bottle back into place and remove the owner’s manual, my movements careful. Professional. Like I’m handling evidence—a thought that makes my chest grow tighter still.

Returning to the engine, I throw myself into the work. Engines make sense. I can handle engines. But I can’t stop thinking about those phones, that prescription bottle.

Could there be some truth to what people have said about him?

By closing time, Esther’s gone home and I’ve made decent progress on the initial tear-down. But I can’t settle the unease in my stomach. I tell myself I’m just being professional when I pull out my phone and dial Griffin’s number. That he needs an update on his truck. But part of me hopes talking to him will ease this knot of doubt I’m feeling, even if I can’t ask about what I found.

He answers on the second ring, his voice deep and clear. “Hello?”

“Griffin? It’s Jordana Blake.” I lean against my workbench, suddenly aware of the grease under my nails, the way my coveralls stick to my skin after a long day’s work. “I wanted to update you on the rebuild.”

“I appreciate that.” Something in his tone sends warmth spreading through me, despite my earlier discoveries. “How’s it looking?”

“The tear-down’s underway, but it’ll be at least two weeks before she’s road-ready.” I run my finger along a seam on my coveralls. “How’s my truck treating you?”

“It’s solid. Handled the mountain just fine.”

“That’s good. Hopefully it’s fine for whatever kind of commute you have, too.”

He pauses, and I hear rustling in the background. “Actually, I mainly work from home. I’m a crisis counselor for veterans. Most of it’s over the phone, but sometimes they need face-to-face support. Having reliable transportation makes a real difference.”

The gentle passion in his voice catches me off guard. It doesn’t match the image of a dangerous man hiding away on a mountain. “That sounds challenging but meaningful.”

“Exactly. It’s both.” His voice warms further, losing its guarded edge.

“How long were you in the military before becoming a counselor?” I ask.

“Twelve years. Army.” There’s a weight to the simple words that he speaks.

“Thank you for your service,” I say. I mean it, but the words feel inadequate. “My dad served too—Army as well, years ago.”

“Yeah?” The lift in Griffin’s voice encourages me to continue.

“After he got out, he opened this auto shop.” I run my palm along the smooth edge of my workbench, remembering. “I practically grew up here. Spent every afternoon watching him work, learning everything I could. Cars were his language.”

“Sounds like you admired him a lot.”

“I did.” I smile, picturing my younger self. “He used to drag over this little step stool so I could see into the engine bay. Started teaching me oil changes when I was still in elementary school.”

“And now you run the place.”

“Yeah. People around here were amazing when I took over. My dad was pretty beloved in Fairhope, and everyone was so supportive—” The words die in my throat as I realize what I’m saying. About how welcoming and supportive this town can be—to some people. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I’m not saying about how differently they’ve treated Griffin.

“Small towns have long memories,” Griffin says quietly.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, I should let you go. I just wanted to keep you updated on the timeline.”

“Thanks for that.” He pauses. “And for trusting me with your truck.”

That last part hits something tender in my chest. Trust. What do I really know about the man I’ve lent my truck to?

After we hang up, I lock up the shop and head upstairs to my apartment. The space isn’t much—just an open-plan kitchen and living room with exposed brick walls and windows that overlook Main Street—but it’s mine. It’s home.

As I heat up leftover lasagna, Griffin’s voice plays through my mind. I think about how it softened when he talked about his work, then grew warmer as our conversation meandered. None of it fits with the whispered stories I've tried to ignore—about a violent past, about why he lives alone on that mountain, about things that happened in other towns before he came here.

I eat at my kitchen counter, phone in hand. Instead of checking social media, I find myself typing Griffin’s name into a search engine. The first result is a veterans’ crisis support website, and there he is, listed as a counselor, credentials clear and verified.

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. At least that part was true.

After I finish eating, I take a hot shower, hoping it will help take my mind off Griffin. But it doesn’t help at all. My mind keeps circling back to what I found in his truck, and then to the passion in his voice when he talked about helping veterans. I want to believe in that version of him—the gentle giant who apologizes when he’s wrong, someone who does good in the world.

In bed, I watch my ceiling fan’s lazy circles and wonder what Dad would say about all this. I know exactly how he’d react to those rumors about Griffin—he always believed in giving people a chance to prove themselves. But I can also hear his protective tone, the one he used whenever he caught boys hanging around the shop trying to talk to me. He’d tell me to be careful, to never ignore red flags.

I fall asleep caught between these two sides of my father’s imagined advice, and between my own indecision about Griffin, unsure whether I should trust or fear him.