I don’t like it. Not even a little bit.
Before I can stop her, she’s heading back toward the door with the paper in her hand while pulling her phone out of her pocket. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but she’s gone before I can.
Fuck.
It’s messed up, but I send up a little Christmas wish that her car won’t be a quick fix, and she’ll be stuck here in Storyville. I’m not even a little bit sorry about it and watch Hollyn until I can’t see her anymore. Even after she’s gone, I find myself darting my gaze around and searching for her.
I just need a chance with the woman. Hopefully, with a little Christmas magic on my side, I’ll get one.
CHAPTER 3
HOLLYN
Even though the last thing I want to be doing is eating when I should be on the road; the deliciousness of the sandwich I’m devouring in the café inside Storyville Stories, which is also part bookstore, clearly, certainly helps. When I saw the cute little shop and café, I figured I might as well stop in. I wasn’t expecting to be roped into a meal, but here I am.
I’ll probably walk through the book aisles as well. Honestly, it would be a crime not to since I’m here already.
Waiting for word about my car in the café is a lot better than in the waiting room at Easton Auto. It looked like it had some comfortable chairs, but this is better. The best I would have gotten there was some coffee of an uncertain age and powered creamer. No thank you; I’ll pass.
Just as I sit back in my chair, glad for the break I’ve had in this little town, even if it wasn’t part of the plan, my phone rings. I fumble it a little as I practically dive into my bag to grab it. The number is unfamiliar, but I answer it anyway while hoping it’s the auto shop and not some telemarketer call.
“Hello?” My voice is tentative while I cross my fingers and send up a little wish—not a Christmas one—that whoever is on the other end will have good news for me.
“Hello, is this Hollyn?”
The voice on the other end of the line is deep and masculine, but it doesn’t sound like the same guy I talked to when I dropped my car off. Whoever that was mentioned his brothers, so maybe this is one of them?
“This is Hollyn,” I confirm even though I’m wary. What can I say? I don’t trust easily; I never have. My tone is prim, and my words are clipped as I ask, “How can I help you?”
The man chuckles, the sound filled with banked amusement, before clearing his throat. “This is Oliver Easton over at Easton Auto? You spoke with my brother earlier after we towed your car in?”
“Yes,” I sit up a little straighter, my voice folding in a note of hope, “do you have good news for me?”
“I guess it depends on what you consider good news,” he muses. I bite my lip to stop myself from snapping at the man. It’s not his fault that I want to be on the road. He has no idea about my plan; one mapped out with Hillary in some of her weakest moments. The memory of those moments feels like a vice around my heart and chest making it hard to breathe.
It hasn’t been long, and I realize that isn’t helping, but it’s difficult to imagine a time when this pain isn’t as sharp. Every time I think about my best friend it feels like a knife to my gut, and I’m left looking down at the blood pumping from the wound all over again. If this is how I have to live, I’ll find a way to deal with it, but, fuck, it hurts.
Losing Hillary is a first for me. Maybe I was sheltered. Or just lucky. But no one I was close to has died. Not until Hillary.
I had no idea the chasm left behind by her absence would be so deep. I had no idea it would feel like she’s still there, just a phone call away, more often than not. Part of the reason I didn’t want to put off this trip was because I thought it might make this whole thing feel real.
If I was on the road by myself then she was gone and every day in the car would be a reminder. But it’s not what has happened.
I shake my head and blink a few times because I refuse to let my tears fall. Not right now. I can’t break down again. Not yet.
“I’d consider you telling me that my car is in fine working order and ready to be picked up to be good news,” I try to keep the snark out of my voice, but I fail. Epically.
“Well,” Oliver holds out the word and my stomach drops, “then I guess I don’t have good news, just news.”
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath which causes Oliver to bark out a laugh. “Fine,” I whine, not caring about what the man on the other end of the line thinks of me, “let me in on the news.”
“It’s fixable,” he begins and I blow out a breath. I hadn’t even realized I was worried about something being so fucked up with my car that getting back on the road would be next to impossible.
He starts talking and telling me exactly what is wrong with my car, but I zone out for a moment. It’s not that surprising; while I appreciate the fact that this guy isn’t talking to me like I’m some stupid little woman who knows nothing about cars, he could just cut to the chase.
I zone back in just as he says, “The parts will take a few days to come in, but once they do the fix won’t take long.”
His words piss me off, but I force myself to count in my head. This guy doesn’t deserve my anger and frustration. It’s not his fault that I’m stuck in some random Colorado town when I should be on the road.
