“Wanda needs to mind her own damn business, along with the rest of this town,” I mutter, shooting her a pointed look.
George purses her lips. “I knew Hank, Sally’s grandpa. He was a good man. He and Dad were friends. Hank and his wife, Josie, raised Sally when her parents died. When Josie passed, it was just Hank and Sally. They doted on each other.”
I nod abruptly. “It’s clear she loved him a lot. And he left her his most precious possession.”
George’s expression softens. “And that matters to you.”
I look away. “It matters.”
George steps closer. “So you can help with the Mustang?”
I lift my gaze to hers. “I can. I will.”
She nods approvingly as if I’m talking about more than the car. “I know things didn’t work out for you in Tangle Creek. But don’t push Sally away because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Sure,” she says, patting the Mustang’s hood affectionately. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She moves toward the tool wall and grabs a few items, tucking them into a battered canvas bag.
“I’m heading out to Havenridge,” she says. “Some old baler’s eating its own drive belt. You’ve got the place to yourself if you want to stay on and work.”
Then, over her shoulder: “Don’t break the girl or the car, West. Both of them deserve better.”
She disappears through the side door.
Silence again.
I sit back on my heels and stare at the Mustang’s exposed heart. It’s easier than acknowledging the one in my own chest, acting like it’s brand-new equipment.
I don’t do crushes.
I don’t do longing.
But when I close my eyes, I see Sally smiling at the diner, andsomething inside me turns over.
I swear under my breath and get to work before my brain gets me in trouble.
By late morning, I’ve already put in a parts order—fuel lines, new plugs, gaskets, filters, just in case. Most of it’s overkill. But I’d rather have what we need than lose momentum while Sally’s here.
I work on Caleb Cutter’s truck, sweep the bay, restock the rag bin, and even clean the coffee pot, which hasn’t been used for anything but dust collection since George went full thermos.
By the time I sketch out a rough plan for the night—replace fuel lines, test the starter, inspect the electrical system—I’ve circled her name three times on the notepad.
Sally.
Three times. Like a goddamn teenager.
I rip the page out so I don’t look desperate and tuck the blueprint into the Mustang’s glove compartment. Safe from prying eyes.
Especially mine.
The shop is finally dark except for the security lights. The Mustang sits there like asilent promiseof a life I never pictured wanting. A future that looks less like running and more like…staying.
I reach out and trace a thumb along the fender. “I’ll take care of her,” I murmur.
I realize too late that I meantSally, not the car.
