He winks. “She’s got wheels, horsepower, and a whole lotta attitude. Sounds like royalty to me.”
I huff a laugh as I grab my toolbox and toss it into the back of his truck.
As we climb in, Tom glances sideways at me. “How's your dad? Haven't seen the sheriff around much lately.”
“Busy. Election year.” My stomach twists. “He's got big plans for this town. Most don't include a daughter who'd rather rebuild carburetors than attend his fundraisers.”
Tom chuckles. “Your dad's missing out.”
“Tell him that.” I roll down the window, soaking in the familiar scent of damp earth, manure, and cut grass. “What about you guys? How are things after the fire?”
His smile fades slightly. “Luna’s doing okay. Healing. Angus has been locking things up more than usual. Being careful.”
“Understandable,” I murmur, my chest tightening at the thought of the charred barn skeleton, knowing Luna was trapped in that inferno.
I knew about the fire, of course—the whole town did. And the rumors that it was started deliberately. Dad investigated it, but being the sheriff’s daughter doesn’t mean I’m privy to case details.
Tom sighs. “Almost losing Luna spooked everyone. With Shay pregnant and Luna still healing, we’re all a bit on edge. Angus hired a security guy. Said he wanted an extra set of eyes around the place. He arrives in a few days.”
I glance over. “Extra set of eyes?”
Tom’s shrug is almost too casual. “Yeah. Someone Angus knows. Quiet type. Doesn’t talk much, but good at what he does, apparently.”
“Great. Just what we need. Another man who communicates in grunts.”
I try to make it a joke, but it lands bitter—too close to the bone.
Guys like that? They assess threat levels and catalog weaknesses before they say two words. I’ve seen it in my dad. In his friends. In every man who’s ever looked at me and seen potential wasted on calloused hands and a ratchet.
Not that it matters. I wouldn't know what to do with a different kind of attention.
I’ll stick to fixing broken-down vehicles.
No expectations. No judgment. No one trying to shape me into someone I’m not.
Just tools, grit, the clean truth of something broken—and the satisfaction of making it whole again.
* * *
Three hours, one tractor diagnosis, and a quick shower later, I'm parked outside the sheriff's office. I rummage through my glove compartment for a hair tie, yanking my still-damp hair into submission. The faint smell of motor oil clings to me despite scrubbing my hands raw. Dad will notice. He always does.
I adjust my shirt for the third time before pushing open the entrance to the sheriff’s office. The bell above it jingles—too loud, too cheerful—and a pointed reminder that I’m six minutes late.
Dad’s already at his desk, his head bent over paperwork, his pen moving in clipped, military strokes.
He doesn’t even glance up. “You’re late.”
I swallow my automatic smartass reply and straighten my spine. “Sorry. Busy day. Had to finish up with a customer. Their equipment needed immediate attention.”
“Discipline matters, Georgina.”
I wince. He only uses my full name when he’s disappointed. “I know, Dad. Doing my best.”
He finally looks up, his gaze scanning me like I’m a recruit under inspection. For a second, I think he might soften.
Then the door creaks open behind me and Deputy Marcus Wade enters, uniform crisp, smile in place, smelling like pine soap and duty.
“Georgina,” he says, his grin smooth as freshly waxed floorboards.
