Nolan’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Our Sally here is a good girl.” Wanda says it like a warning, but my chest warms at being called “our Sally.”
This town has really embraced me since I lost Grandpa. They brought casseroles and car stories. Left flowers on the porch. Offered to fix things at the house I didn’t know needed fixing.
Nolan glances at me. “Never doubted it.” Then he gives Wanda a pointed look. “Pretty sure this is a diner, not a confessional. And I’m hungry.”
“Yes, I think you are.” She pats his hand and sashays off, as if her work here is done.
His eyes warm a degree. Barely noticeable, except I’m payingdangerous amounts of attention.
“So,” I say, trying to be casual, “how did you end up working at Clover Canyon Autos?”
“Moved here from Tangle Creek a few months ago,” he says, naming the town an hour west of Clover Canyon. His expression tightens as if he left bad memories behind, and I wonder if a woman was involved. “George needed someone to help out, and who gave a damn about the work. I give a damn.”
“That sounds like a glowing self-review.”
One eyebrow lifts, accompanied by that near-smile again. “I don’t lie about what I’m good at.”
“And you’re good at fixing things.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away. “Engines. Metal. Stuff that tells you when it’s breaking.”
I know what he’s not saying:not people.
“Your hands must get tired,” I say, not thinking until it’s too late how that sounds.
His eyes drop to my mouth.“They do.”
My pulse forgets how to pulse.
Wanda appears and plunks down the food just in time to save me from combusting.
“Holler if you need anything else,” she says with a warm smile before moving away to serve another customer.
The burger lookssinful. I take a bite and moan before I can stop myself.
Nolanchokes on air. “That good?” he manages.
“Religious experience,” I say, mouth full. “I would marry this burger.”
“Thanks,” Wanda calls from the counter. “But he’s too young for you.”
I cough-laugh and hide my face in my napkin.
When the food settles and my dignity returns, I pull out my camera and aim it toward the table.
“Do you mind if I grab a quick clip of the ‘fuel stop’ for my episode intro?”
He looks at the camera as if it’s a bomb. “Why?”
“To show the real process,” I explain. “Restoring a car isn’t glamorous. It’s long nights and greasy burgers.”
He eyes me. “You’re not filming me.”
“No,” I promise, trying to look trustworthy and not like I’mdying to record every flicker of his expression.“Just the food. Maybe a voiceover later.”
He nods, but he keeps his gaze locked on the lens like it’s plotting to steal his soul.
