I shrug, trying for nonchalance. “We definitely won’t say no.”
It lights something in her. “I can do that. I need a distraction, anyway.”
Henry smirks. “You’re hired. Pay’s lousy, but there’s coffee.”
Beth laughs. The sound is easy, a balm after the tension of yesterday.
While she disappears into a spreadsheet abyss, I work on her car but find my mind wandering back to her. She’s nothing like the women I grew up around. Most folks in town settle early, live, and die within a few miles of where they landed. Beth is different—sharper, independent. I catch her muttering at the laptop, eyebrows knit in focused annoyance, and I realize I like her here.
The thought sneaks up on me. I want her to stay. In the house. In the shop. In my orbit.
Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I’m asking for trouble. But I can’t help it.
By late afternoon, we’re winding down. Beth stands and stretches, rolling her shoulders with a theatrical sigh. “I’ve made a dent in the chaos, but you two are hopeless with receipts.”
Henry grins. “That’s why we hired you.”
Beth shakes her head, fighting a smile.
I wipe grease from my hands. “Your car’s finished,” I say.
She glances up, surprised. “That fast?” She hesitates, then adds, “Would it be okay if I stayed one more night?”
Something warm rolls through me. “I’d be honored.”
Henry claps me on the back. “You two go get dinner. I’ll lock up.”
Beth flushes, caught off guard. “Oh, I…I don’t want to trouble—”
I cut her off. “Come on. Let me buy you a real meal, no strings.”
She searches my face, then nods. “All right.”
We end up at the diner, side by side, in a booth by the window, burgers, fries, the low murmur of locals around us.
Beth relaxes over dinner, finally letting the yesterday’s tension slip from her shoulders.
She glances up with half a smile on her lips. “Do you rescue a lot of stranded women, or am I just lucky?”
“Only the ones worth rescuing,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t look away.
For the first time since she showed up, I wonder if she’s beginning to believe she could belong here, with me.
God, wouldn’t that be nice?
CHAPTER SEVEN
BETH
Morning light slices through the curtains and paints golden bars across the bed. I blink. For one suspended moment, I’m wrapped in quiet, and then everything crashes in: the car’s fixed. This is the day I leave.
I sit up, shoving tangled hair out of my eyes. Every muscle resists. My body is already mourning a home it wasn’t supposed to find. I clutch the edge of the covers, looking for excuses to stay, but I find none. The world outside this house waits, cold and inevitable.
My duffel sits by the door. I sling it over my shoulder and make my way down the hall. The scent of coffee and something rich and buttery draws me toward the kitchen, each step sharpening the ache in my stomach.
Jack stands at the stove, back to me, flipping pancakes. He wears a gray T-shirt, still damp around his shoulders, his hair tousled and glinting from a recent shower. For a moment, I watch him, memorizing the scene. The simplest things about him—the way his broad shoulders move, the deliberate patience in his hands—nearly undo me.
